


Missed Perceptions

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cutting, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, First Time, Food Issues, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Self-Harm, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is a Mess, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 33,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can’t think.” His head dropped into his hands. “God, John. I can’t think. I can’t think! What am I doing to myself?”</p>
<p>Sherlock's got a secret, and after a tough case John needs to find out what it is before he self-destructs.</p>
<p>Set between In Transit and His Innocence; probably better to read In Transit before this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ariane DeVere for the fabulous episode transcripts!

Prelude—In Transit

> A week after the Atkinson case had been wrapped up, John’s mobile rang. Surprised, he accepted the call, noting that it was barely seven o’clock.
> 
> “Hello? Greg?” he whispered.
> 
> “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
> 
> “No. I was just getting up anyway. Hang on a sec.” There was a bit of background noise, and then John’s voice again. “I’m here.”
> 
> “I just wanted to know…” the voice hesitated.
> 
> “Know what?”
> 
> There was a deep sigh, and then Lestrade asked hesitantly, “Is he all right?”
> 
> “He’s… I’m looking after him.”
> 
> A pause.
> 
> “So he’s not all right, is he?”
> 
> And another.
> 
> “Not really,” John admitted.
> 
> Finally. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I mean, let me know. I mean… Christ. Just let me know how not okay he is, right?”
> 
> This time the silence could be counted in seconds.
> 
> Finally. “Yeah. Ta.” 

*

It had been a _hell_ of a week.

Chapter 1

“It’s two o’clock in the morning.” John cleared his throat and rubbed one eye.  
  
“Well aware.” Sherlock waved the arm on which he wore his watch and smirked.  
  
“Then you’re ‘well aware’ that most people are asleep at this hour.”  
  
“I’m not most people.”  
  
“Well aware,” John shot back bitterly. “And I’m so sorry to be the one to break it to you, but even if you’re not ‘most people,’ you still have to sleep on occasion.”  
  
“Go back to bed.”  
  
 _“Go the fuck to sleep!”_  
  
*  
  
“Come have some breakfast.”  
  
…  
  
“I made all your favourites.”  
  
…  
  
“Well?”  
  
…  
  
“Not ignoring me would be a smart idea right about now.”  
  
…  
  
“Or acting like a four-year-old. Come pick that up.”  
  
…  
  
“Christ, Sherlock! _You have to fucking eat!”_  
  
*  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Out. Obviously.”  
  
“Out where? Sherlock? Sherlock!”  
  
*  
  
“Where were you?”  
  
“Out.”  
  
“What were you doing?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Ah. Of course. How could I not have figured that out on my own?” John rubbed a hand over his weary face.  
  
“Because you’re an idiot.”  
  
“Hey! Get back here. I’ve ordered some takeaway for dinner and I expect you out here when it arrives, all right?”  
  
*  
  
“You had just two dumplings.” John looked critically down at Sherlock’s plate.  
  
“And soup.”  
  
“ _Some_ soup. That’s still not nearly enough. Sit back down!”  
  
“Stop treating me like a child, John. I said that I don’t want any more.”  
  
John took a deep breath and counted to five in his head. “Why don’t you come sit down and keep me company while I finish my dinner, then?” he managed in a relatively level tone. Instead, Sherlock moved over to the desk and began poking at one of their laptops. “Sherlock? Did you hear me?”  
  
The thin man slammed the computer shut and shoved it away from himself, causing papers on the other side of the desk to flutter to the floor. His brows were drawn down into a scowl. “Yes of _course_ I heard you, you idiot!” he shouted, knocking more papers off the desk for good measure. “Would you just _shut up_ about food all the time and leave me alone!” He began to pace through the cluttered room.  
  
“Then just stop doing this. All of this. Stop all the brooding and not eating and not sleeping and I’ll leave you alone.”  
  
“I can’t just stop. I’ve _explained_ that.” The pacing man suddenly went still, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.  
  
“I don’t mean that it’s going to be easy. I don’t expect that,” John exclaimed impatiently. How many times did he have to say that?  
  
“Don’t you? Seems like it—the way you constantly demand that I change my behaviour.”  
  
“No. I _know_ that you can get really wound up. That’s why I offer to help you, you git.”  
  
“How are _you_ going to help _me_?” was the haughty reply.  
  
“Don’t insult me. I am a doctor. And your friend.” He reached out—  
  
And Sherlock shoved him away; hard. “I said leave me alone!” he bellowed.  
  
John narrowed his eyes. “All right,” he said coldly. “I will.”  
  
And he left.  
  
*  
  
John had been walking—well, stomping—around for over an hour. His face was clearly telegraphing his mood; people kept getting out of his way.  
  
He finally paused, staring into a shop window without having the slightest awareness of what was displayed. What he caught, instead, was a glimpse of his own reflection—rage, sorrow, and anguish looked back.  
  
 _What did I just do?_  
  
Crap.  
  
He looked around, oriented himself, and headed back home.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
His flatmate was in his chair. He looked up from his book. At first he looked as if he was going to say something rude and insulting, which wouldn’t have surprised John in the slightest, but then his expression changed. He shrugged and went back to reading.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard,” the doctor apologized, hanging up his coat.  
  
“It’s fine,” he said brusquely.  
  
“No, it’s not fine. Nagging you isn’t going to help anything, and neither is me storming out of the flat.”  
  
“I wanted you to leave me alone. You left. Seems like an excellent solution to the situation.” Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off his book. His clipped tones were like a physical blow.  
  
“Well, I am sorry and I don’t want to argue any more this evening, all right?” John replied wearily. He slumped down into his own chair. “Do you have the paper?”  
  
“What? Oh, yes.” He bent forward to rummage around the side of the chair, where he had dropped the _Telegraph._ And winced.  
  
“Are you all right?” John inquired suspiciously.  
  
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” He tried reaching for the newspaper again, and this time, he grunted.  
  
“What’s wrong?” The doctor’s voice was tight with alarm.  
  
“Nothing. Just stiff.” He handed him the newspaper and John wasn’t nearly as much of an idiot as Sherlock claimed that he was sometimes because instead of taking the paper, he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him forward. The dark-haired man gasped, in obvious pain.  
  
“You’re lying, you idiot,” John spat out through clenched teeth. “Tell me what you did.”  
  
“Nothing! Let go of me!”  
  
Sherlock was strong but John had better leverage and it didn’t take much for him to grab the other wrist, pushing Sherlock back into his chair. His eyes scanned the taller man from top to bottom. “Sherlock, what’s that?” he asked slowly. The detective’s eyes followed his down—  
  
to the blood seeping through the elegant black trousers.  
  
*  
  
For a good ten seconds, they were at an impasse, each glaring into the other’s eyes. Finally, John swallowed and bit his lips. His voice was rough. “Do I need to check them? Are they bad?”  
  
Sherlock broke his gaze. “No,” he snarled.  
  
“Lying again. You’re bleeding through your clothes. I need to check you. I need to see them.”  
  
“Not necessary!”  
  
“Come on,” John finally cajoled softly. “Get up and let’s go into the bathroom and I’ll just take a look, all right?”  
  
Sherlock shoved John as hard as he could, pushing him so the backs of his knees hit his chair and he sat, hard. “I said I am fine!” he thundered, looming over his friend. He tried to turn away, and suddenly he sucked in a harsh breath as his hand went to the spot where the blood was, shutting his eyes.  
  
“Sherlock! Sit down!” John was out of his chair and it was his turn to push—more gently—until Sherlock fell into his chair, his hand held tightly over his right hip. “I’m going to get my kit, all right? Just stay there,” John urged. He was back in an instant, kneeling in front of his friend’s chair. He touched his knee. “I’m going to have to take your trousers down,” he told him softly. Eyes still shut, Sherlock shrugged.  
  
 _Shit, Sherlock,_ he thought to himself as he eased trousers down and shirt up. He winced in sympathy as the fabric pulled away, the blood adhering it to the skin. He found a few ineffective large plasters; they and the pants were completely saturated. He carefully undid the bottom buttons of the shirt and moved it aside. “I’ve got to… I’m sorry, but I’ve got to take off your pants. Okay?”  
  
There was no response but a wince as he worked the pants down as gently as he could; long, pale fingers dug into the chair’s arms.  
  
He shut his eyes for a second at the sight.  
  
The cuts—three sets of five each.  
  
One set started just above the knee.  
  
The next set spanned the bony hip and fold where the leg met the body.  
  
The third  
  
Oh God Sherlock why?  
  
The third extended from the hip up the abdomen, ending somewhere near his waist.  
  
The cuts were deep and bleeding heavily.  
  
Numb  
  
Right. Numb the skin first.  
  
Clean cuts  
  
Clean the cuts as gently as possible  
  
Fix  
  
This was a fix for him; a hit  
  
A high  
  
But now he was crashing and the pain that had been held at bay by the endorphins was enveloping him and burning and throbbing and stinging and he felt like he was going to be sick and he was shaking and he was cold with his trousers and pants off and suddenly it was all too much even though he had done this to himself.  
  
 _Because he had done this to himself._  
  
This was no stab wound from some crazed junkie. This wasn’t a threat from a dealer. This wasn’t losing skin from hip to knee sliding down an embankment after a panicking, exposed jewel thief. This was _him._  
  
One trembling hand released its hold on the chair’s arm and went up to his mouth, and then to his eyes, covering them even though they were shut. He turned his head to the side, as far as he could, trying desperately to put distance—to put a barrier—between himself and what was happening to his body. The doctor kneeling in front of him glanced up.  
  
“Sherlock—” he started, and then he stopped. He had no idea what to say, so he continued to work in silence. It took a long time. He wiped the pale skin clean and covered the stitched-up wounds with soft gauze so they wouldn’t catch on his clothes. Finally, he was able to say, “All done. Do you need a hand changing? You should soak your clothes.”  
  
His flatmate didn’t reply. He rose with difficulty and limped away, leaving the stained trousers and pants on the sitting room floor. He stripped off his shirt, throwing it fiercely to the kitchen floor as he walked through, down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind himself.  
  
*  
  
John didn’t see him for the rest of the evening. He dumped the remainders of his unfinished dinner in the bin; they had congealed into an unappetizing mass while he had been out.  
  
Cleaned up the bandage debris and put away his medical kit. With a glance at the shut bedroom door, dropped Sherlock’s blood-soaked clothing into the tub and covered it with cold water. Brushed his teeth and trudged up the stairs to bed.  
  
Fury and frustration masked the pain as the side of his hand met the wall of his bedroom—hard. Three times.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

John lingered as long as he could the next morning before heading to work. He noticed, of course, that the clothing that he had left soaking in the tub was gone. Between his shower and shave, he listened for any signs of life from the room next door. Nothing.  
  
The clothing was in the kitchen bin. He made himself coffee and toast and had a quiet breakfast. Listening.  
  
Finally, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Coat on, he debated. Should he? Shouldn’t he? Yes, he should.  
  
“Sherlock! I’m headed to work. Back dinner time.”  
  
He didn’t wait for a reply.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?” He had entered the flat quietly, noticing immediately that despite the evening shadows, no lamps were on in the sitting room. No light in the kitchen. The bathroom door was open to the dark interior. Sherlock’s bedroom door was still shut.  
  
Shit, he thought. Why the fuck does he have to be like this? Well, he might as well get it over with. He strode down the hall and knocked firmly on the door. “Sherlock? Do you want dinner? I’m just doing some pasta.” No reply. Oh, big surprise. The doctor turned away from the door angrily. God, if he was going to be like that, two could play that game.  
  
He had the pot filled with water before he gave in and headed back down the hall. He knocked softly this time. “Sherlock? You in there?” He opened the door into the darkened room slowly. The light spilling from the hallway didn’t reveal much, but it was obvious that Sherlock was curled up on the bed, the sheets tangled around him. “Hey, you all right?” the doctor murmured, entering the room.   
  
Still no response. John sat carefully on the bed next to the Sherlock-sized lump and began to untangle the sheets in what he presumed was the general vicinity of the man’s head. “Hey,” he said quietly, finally finding a head; a face. A neck and shoulders—bare. “I need to check you.” No need to be evasive, was there? He continued untangling.  
  
Bare chest. Bare hips.  
  
Oh, Sherlock.  
  
Five fresh cuts on the left thigh. Not bad, thank God.  
  
Anger and fury and rage and—he didn’t feel any of that. At all. “I’m going to get my things and get these cleaned up, all right?”  
  
No response. Didn’t expect one.  
  
*  
  
“I don’t do it to hurt you.”  
  
“I know that.” He calmly continued cleaning, gently as he could. He finished with a few large plasters. Pulled the bedclothes back up over the naked ivory skin. Patted the bony hip through them. Waited.  
  
Waited.  
  
“Do you know why you do it?” he finally asked, gently.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Okay. Do you want me to go away?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
John stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the bin where the blood-soaked gauze had already been deposited. Kicked off his shoes. Climbed onto the bed and curled up around his—  
  
Around his what?  
  
Did it matter?  
  
*   
  
John looked blearily at his watch. Must have dozed off, he realized. He sat up stiffly, glancing down at—  
  
Sherlock was sleeping.  
  
Oh, thank God.  
  
He slid off the bed as carefully as he could and crept out of the room, leaving the door open so he could hear while he lit the ring under the water for the pasta.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

/>

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked.  
  
“Yes. I’ve said yes. Go to work.”  
  
John wanted to punch himself when he got home that evening. Sherlock was gone.  
  


> Where are you?
> 
> …
> 
> Come home now
> 
> …
> 
> Im worried about you
> 
> …
> 
> Do you need me to come get you?
> 
> …
> 
> I’m not angry
> 
> …
> 
> Please come home now

He sat in his chair, staring at a book. Checking his texts every few minutes. For hours.

*

“Sherlock? What the hell…?” John thundered down the stairs. He reached desperately for the prostrate man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Found it. Counted. Moved down another two steps, squeezing past the supine body in its heavy coat so that he could see the pale face. He held a hand up to his mate’s nose and mouth. “Oh, thank God. Breathing… breathing’s good.”

And then he noticed the smell. “For fuck’s sake. Is that gin?” he enquired aloud. Was Sherlock just… drunk?

He slid down another step so he could get his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Hey. Hey! Come on, now. Wake up. Wake up! Sherlock? WAKE UP FOR ME.”

A barely discernible sound; a grunt.

“Good. That’s good. Come on. Come back to me.” John patted one of the pale cheeks, shuddering at the feel of the razor-sharp cheekbone.

A slighter longer grunt this time. A slight head movement.

“That’s it. Wake up. Come on. I want to get you upstairs.”

“…stairs?” John had to bend his head to hear, but it was a recognizable word.

“Yeah. You’re on the stairs and Mrs Hudson has a rule against kipping on them. I want to get you up and into your bed. All right? Do you think you can do that?”

“Nnn.”

“It’s either that or I call 999.”

The eyes fluttered a bit. “NNNNuh.”

“No, huh? All right. I won’t call an ambulance and have you hauled off to A & E if you just try to get up. I’ll do the work. You just have to help. Can you do that much?”

“Yethhh.”

“Fine. Good. Let’s go.” John was not a large man, but he was strong and sturdy and had experience (far too much) hefting dead weights. Putting his hands under Sherlock’s arms, he got him sitting up. That elicited a somewhat alarmed sound. “Do me a favour and don’t puke on me, okay?” he requested sincerely.

“Nuhh promithez.”

Despite everything, John smiled a bit. At least Sherlock was being honest.

“All right. Now, I’m going to pull you up. You can help. I know you can. Ready?”

And inch by painful inch, step by lurching step, John got the dead weight formerly known as Sherlock Holmes up and into their flat.

“All right. Home again, home again,” he muttered under his breath as he released his burden, hoping it would retain a semi-seated position once deposited on the sofa. He stepped back and considered the results of his labour.

All right. Barely conscious but semi-upright. Breathing. He retrieved a large glass of water and sat down on the sofa next to his mate. “Have some water. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“’cause you, Jawn Watzun, have esperience with drinks. With drinking.”

“More than you, that’s for sure. Come on. Half a glass.” He held the glass to Sherlock’s mouth and gingerly tipped it. Two mouthfuls and he was shaking his head, trying to push it away. “Too much? Okay. Why don’t we get you to bed?”

He tipped him forward and with some difficulty managed to extract him from his coat. Dead weight up again; his arm across Sherlock’s waist. He was a little easier to manoeuvre without the coat on, he realized. Seriously, how much did that thing weigh?

“You need to use the loo first.”

“Shure.”

John looked toward heaven, where he surely was headed when he died.

*

“Thtop it! I can do it… myself.”

“Really? I’d like to see that.”

“Go ‘way. It’s private.”

“You are joking, aren’t you? There hasn’t been any such a thing as privacy in this flat since—well, since _before_ I moved in.”

*

“Thank you.”

“A small blow to your dignity but less cleaning up, yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay. Bedroom.”

Oh, John could do this in his sleep by now. Sit. Off with the suit jacket (he would go through the pockets later) and shirt. Shoes and socks off. Stand up again. Off with the trousers. After a moment’s pause, the doctor muttered, “In for a penny, in for a pound,” and off went the pants.

“You seem to undress me rather often,” Sherlock mused, wrapping his arms around his now-cold chest.

“You seem to need me to rather often.”

“You like to see me naked?”

“Sure. Miles of consulting detective, laid out for me. I’m mad for it. Sit down.”

Sherlock plunked himself back onto the bed and frowned as John patiently maneuvered his feet into pyjama bottoms. “Really?”

“Hips up. Yes. Sure.” John smiled.

“But you’re… you know. That thing. Uh…”

“Straight?”

“Yeah, yeah! That! Not-gay. I know that because… why do I know that?”

John wanted to burst out laughing at the perplexed look. “Because I say it all the time?” he suggested.

“Oh. Right. John… why do you say that all the time?”

“Because it’s true.”

“People don’t believe you. Why don’t they believe you? You’re a very honest person.” He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his full lower lip.

“Maybe because you are? And because I seem to undress you rather often? Arms up.”

“Oh. Right. I’m… I…” Sherlock paused in confusion.

“You have no idea what you are at the moment, do you?” John asked in amusement, yanking a clean t-shirt over the dark curls.

Sherlock frowned, concentrating. “I am fairly certain that I’m a homosexual, John,” he said sincerely.

“Yes, I am fairly certain you are as well.”

“Does that… is that a problem?”

“No. You know it’s not.”

“That’s good. Because I am fine with you being not-gay.”

“Thank you for that. Lie down.”

The pale man did that, gratefully. The giddiness was beginning to pass and he was starting to feel--“I don’t feel well,” he announced with trepidation.

“I’m not surprised. Need a bin?”

*

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course. Always. Lie down.”

“You too.”

Whatever worked, right?

*

John was the nicest, kindest flatmate in the world, even if he did say so himself, which he did the next morning when Sherlock virtually crawled out of his bedroom, staggered into the bathroom, and was sick. Not that there was much left to lose, the doctor reflected, after last night’s adventures (and John was so very thankful for wipe-clean surfaces).

He didn’t say a word as the very pale man formerly known as Sherlock Holmes poured himself into a chair at the kitchen table. The messy curls were instantly cradled in two shaking hands.

John waited a tick before ever so gently asking, “Do you want some water?”

A nod.

John fetched a large glass of water and some tablets and put them on the table. The quivering hands now attempted to bring both objects to the cracked lips. It took a few tries, but finally swallowing was accomplished.

“I know you think that you don’t want to eat, but I can honestly tell you that it will make you feel better. Do you want to start with some toast and eggs?” He ignored the hand that moved to cover the dry lips and began to cook. He put a small plate with a modest serving of eggs and another small plate with one piece of toast, cut into soldiers, on the table, then deliberately turned away and started the washing up.

“All done? Good job. Why not go lie down again?” he suggested, indicating the sofa.

The suggestion was accepted and a limp consulting detective was soon ensconced, his eyes shut. John dried his hands and moved into the sitting room. He sat at his desk, fidgeted with some papers for a bit—must remember to pay his mobile bill—then gave up. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut a second longer. “Doing a bit better?” he asked sincerely.

“Mmm bit,” came the rough-voiced reply.

“Good. Because you do know what comes now.” He kept his voice calm.

“Now? Nnnhh… God, John. Do we have to _talk_ about it?” His eyes opened slowly.

“Yeah. Yes. I’m afraid so. Sherlock, you came home completely plastered last night. You’re going to reek of gin for days.”

“Oh, joy.”

“I just want to know what you were _doing._ You don’t really drink.” John realized that he was drumming his fingers on the desk and stopped. “Where were you?”

“I was…” Sherlock paused, puzzlement superseding suffering on his face. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I started in the Vault.”

“What—for a case?”

“What? No! No. Not _a_ vault. _The Vault_ —it’s a pub.”

“Ah.”

“But it seemed a bit _much_. I was just about to leave when he started buying me drinks.”

“Who started buying you drinks?” John didn’t even realize when he sat up straighter in his chair, alarm singing up and down his spine.

“This...man. Dressed well even if the suit was off the rack. Lost two teeth playing football as a teenager. Mother’s from Dublin. Used to own two cats but is currently the owner of one elderly dog. Plays the piano passionately if not terribly well.”

“And how much of that did he actually tell you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. None of it.”

“Of course. So a well-dressed stranger started buying you drinks? Gin and tonic, right?” Sherlock nodded and shut his eyes again with a groan. “Did he have a name?”

“Ian… something.”

“Ian Something. Uh huh. So what did you and Ian Something do then?”

“He took me to Quebec.”

“You just popped over to Canada, then?”

“No! The Quebec—City of Quebec. It’s a pub near Marble Arch.”

“And what happened there? Other than more gin and tonic?”

“Please don’t keep using the word ‘gin.’”

“Sorry. Please continue.”

“That wasn’t bad, but the bartender was watering down the drinks and two of the waiters had just had a fight, so the service was off. And there wasn’t any privacy.”

“Why did you need privacy?” The alarms were now sounding bells in John’s head.

“So we went to the Yard.”

“What? You went to Scotland Yard?”

“Huh? No, no, no. The Yard is another pub. That was nicer. Quieter. We started talking to someone else.”

“Who?”

“Peter and Duncan. Peter just changed barbers and Duncan’s allergic to lilies.”

John turned these facts over in his mind. “Were they… a couple?” he ventured.

“A couple of what?” Sherlock was beginning to get frustrated.

“A _couple._ As in were they _together_?” the doctor clarified.

“Oh! Yes, I suppose. I mean, they live together and they were kissing, so I suppose so.”

A light went on in John’s head. “Are those all gay bars?” he inquired.

“Well, yes, John.” Sherlock replied in his “isn’t it obvious?” tone of voice.

John raked his hand down his face and sighed. “Sherlock, were you out… looking for someone?”

“I _told_ you that I wasn’t on a case. Pay attention.”

“No. No. I mean, were you out cruising? Trying to hook up?” Sherlock stared at him in confusion. God, did he want him to draw a diagram? He took a deep breath and spoke slowly and clearly. “Sherlock, were you out at a gay bar trying to find someone to have sex with?”

“Don’t be _ridiculous,_ John,” Sherlock said with contempt.

He relaxed. _Oh, thank God._

“I don’t have to try to find someone. They come to me.”

*

“John? John?! Where are you going? What’s the matter? What did I—” The door to the upstairs bedroom slammed. “—say?”

He waited a few minutes, staring up the stairs, utterly baffled by the man’s reaction.

*

Sherlock tried playing, but his E string was being fidgety and he couldn’t figure out why. He broke it and his backup, found a backup to his backup, finally got it right…

And his A string broke.

*

He compared how far into an orange an E string cut as opposed to the A, D, and G strings. He wanted to try it on an apple and a banana. Oranges are not the only fruit, he remarked to John.

Who didn’t hear him because he was still up in his bedroom.

The oranges smelled nice so he left the pieces on the kitchen table.

*

He supposed that he should check his messages in case there was a case. Ha.

*

He wondered what the liquid capacity of a standard violin case was.

He wondered if a cello bag would leak.

*

He should check his messages for a case.

*

He wondered if there was a difference in burn time for red versus blue litmus paper.

*

Instead of litmus paper, in the blue vial he found half a cigarette. He smoked it, not bothering to open a window.

*

He should check his cases for messages. Sometimes there were messages. What if he had missed one? Mycroft would be disgusted with him for missing something.

*

John finally came down the stairs. Without a word he went into the bathroom and started the shower. Showered. Shaved. Came out in

Oh

Date clothes

*

“I’ve got a date. Don’t wait up. I don’t plan on coming home tonight.”

How did John make the front door slam more loudly when he was angry?

 

 

Stupid John.


	4. Chapter 4

He picked up his laptop from the desk and went into his own bedroom. Shut the door. Vaguely considered locking it. Didn’t care. Stupid John was out anyway. Went to his bureau. Pulled open his sock drawer. Reached long fingers down, working by feel. Find it… there. Now the other side. Got it. Tiny notches in the bottom of the drawer and he lifted the false bottom out.   
  
The space beneath it was shallow, but he was careful not to put anything too large in it. He didn’t need a lot of space. Not for what was in there—and everything was carefully cushioned with kitchen towels so the glass vials wouldn’t clink against one another.  
  
There were a lot of glass vials.  
  
Thin, thin syringes—easiest to hide. The thinner the needle, the better, too. Those used for insulin shots worked best, and it was so easy to get them. Anytime he was at Bart’s, a handful would go into a deep inside pocket of his Belstaff.  
  
Alcohol wipes, too. And the tourniquet. Extremely easy to get. Even easier to hide.  
  
Like the scalpels.  
  
Idiots, he thought.  
  
*  
  
First hit: femoral vein. He liked to do that one first; as he added hits his aim tended to get a bit uncertain and then it was easier in his arms. He slid off his trousers and pants.  
  
He slid down onto the floor on the far side of the bed, hidden from anyone who might come in.  
  
First hit: if he was lucky, it would last about half an hour.  
  
What a glorious thirty minutes. His mind was singing; electric. He had the energy he needed to focus. He drew his laptop down onto his bare thighs and began to type.  
  
Second hit: use left hand to inject into right arm.  
  
Oh, that was better. Better than caffeine. Better than nicotine. Better even than heroin.  
  
Second hit: lasted about fifteen minutes. How much time had elapsed? Was John still upstairs? Probably wanking. People were so disgusting sometimes—obsessed with all those awful bodily functions—eating and sleeping and fucking—  
  
Third hit  
  
…  
  
Oh, right. Third hit: use right hand to inject into left arm  
  
It was funny how it was usually so obvious what someone’s dominant hand was—placement of pens, cups, even toothbrushes.  
  
When was the last time he had brushed his teeth?  
  
Could dental floss be used  
  
How many ways could dental floss  
  
Candy floss was bad for your teeth but dental floss was good for them  
  
He giggled. Sometimes things were just so ridiculous.  
  
Third hit: lasted a good eight minutes; he was impressed with this batch and his remarkable self-control—he did have amazing self-control—he did—how else could he go three days without eating/without sleeping/without stopping  
  
Stopping?  
  
No stopping  
  
Not now  
  
Fourth hit and he decided enough for   
  
Self-control after  
  
now  
  
all  
  
He heard music  
  
He heard singing  
  
He didn’t hear John  
  
*  
  
“John? John? Where are you? Did you go out?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“John? I need you.”  
  
*  
  
Please


	5. Chapter 5

“I told you to leave those closed!” Sherlock snapped.  
  
Mrs Hudson glared at him. “It’s dark as a tomb in here, and it smells like one, too, young man,” she snapped back. She nearly ripped the heavy drapes from their rings.  
  
“I said, I want them closed, you moron!” Sherlock bellowed. The pillow didn’t hit her, but it might as well have.  
  
“That’s it. Done.” Mrs Hudson didn’t give him a single glance as she stalked out. “Going to speak to your mum for sure this time,” she muttered darkly.  
  
Sherlock didn’t hear. He was too busy yanking the drapes shut again. “Stupid old woman,” he muttered. “Serves you right if you get hit.” Then he paused. “Make sure the street door is bolted!” he shouted down the stairs after her.  
  
*  
  
“Where did you go? Were you meeting with Mycroft? Are you spying on me for him again?”  
  
“You paranoid bastard!” he shouted, slamming the door. Their landlady had stopped him on his way in and explained in furious tones what had happened earlier, and he was so livid he felt sick.  
  
“I am _not_ paranoid. He really does spy on people.”  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock. I found out what you said to Mrs Hudson—snipers? And then you fucking threw something at her?”  
  
“How do you know about that? Have you been spying on me?”  
  
“Yes, we both have. Mrs Hudson is a regular Mata Hari,” John commented tightly as he yanked off his coat. He opened the cupboard to hang it up.  
  
“Don’t you believe me?”  
  
John, dropping his coat, spun around and stared at him incredulously. “ _Believe_ you? Are you joking? You were probably high as a fucking kite the entire time I was gone, and now you’re a paranoid, frantic mess,” he spat out.  
  
“What paranoia? What are you talking about? You don’t believe me. You never believe me.”  
  
“There is a reason for that.” John’s words squeezed out through clenched teeth.  
  
“I’m calling Lestrade.” Sherlock’s eyes wandered around the flat. He had absolutely no idea… “My mobile’s been stolen.”  
  
“It’s under your chair, you idiot!” he seethed. “Do you _really_ think you should call Lestrade?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why? Why?! Because… no. You know what? Go ahead. Phone him. Tell him _all_ about the snipers across the street and Mrs Hudson’s new career and Mycroft’s surveillance and then maybe you’ll listen to him,” John spat out bitterly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.  
  
Sherlock, his mobile in hand, looked at him suspiciously. “About what?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.  
  
That did it. The ex-army captain exploded. “ABOUT THE FACT THAT YOU ARE A FUCKING ADDICT, SHERLOCK!”  
  
Sherlock froze, a look of horror on his face. “What?” he finally gasped. “What did you say?”  
  
“I said that you are a FUCKING ADDICT!”  
  
Sherlock stared at him, processing this. He suddenly turned away, raking his fingers through his wild hair. “I am _not_!” he bellowed. “I AM NOT AN ADDICT!” He threw his mobile viciously across the sitting room and covered his eyes with his hands. “I am not an addict,” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. “I’m not.” John watched him carefully, but remained silent.  
  
He whirled around to face the doctor again, despair in his eyes. “Am I? John. Am I an addict?”  
  
He hated—absolutely HATED—seeing his friend in that state—but he also knew what he had to do. “No,” John replied calmly. “You’re worse than an addict. You’re a fucking _junkie._ ”  
  
“Go away,” he snarled. “Go away. Get out. GET OUT. GET THE FUCK OUT!”  
  
John didn’t move.  
  
Bedroom. Door slamming. Then a new sound. Sounds.  
  
Books, thrown hard at the door.  
  
*  
  
He had given them both an hour to come down; to calm down. He found that his jaw ached from clenching it. He wasn’t ever sure what he did during that hour, afterward, except that in his fury he had apparently shredded that day’s edition of the _Daily Mail._ Well, served them right.  
  
Now he took a deep breath and blew it out, calming himself further before knocking on the bedroom door. “Sherlock? All right. Enough of this. Can I come in?”  
  
The door was suddenly yanked open, startling him. His friend was staring at him. His shirt was unbuttoned and his feet were bare. He was trembling. “John! I need you… need you… sharp… uh… shooter. Good shot. Excellent shot.”  
  
The doctor walked him over to the bed, avoiding the books that were strewn all over the floor. “Sit down. Let me look at you.”  
  
“What are you talking about? We need to—”  
  
“I need to check you, and you need to sleep. That’s what we need to do.”  
  
“No. Can’t sleep. That’s what he’s expecting.” Sherlock was panicking, trying to push John’s hands away.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said sternly. “Stop that. Listen—do you trust me?”  
  
Sherlock stilled and nodded. “Only you.”  
  
“Okay. Then, right now, trust me when I tell you that the best thing for both of us is if you let me check you, and then you get some sleep.”  
  
“No sleep!”  
  
“Sherlock,” John said firmly, grabbing his shoulders. “You said that you trust me, right? So listen to me. There are no snipers. There’s no murderous cabbie. There are no spies. It’s just you and me and Mrs Hudson downstairs. Do you believe me?”  
  
“I…” Sherlock pulled away and began pacing.  
  
“Does any of that make any sense? Really? Think about it. Moriarty certainly wouldn’t repeat himself, would he? He wouldn’t use a cabbie again, or strap bombs onto more people.”  
  
The consulting detective considered this. That did make sense. “No. He wouldn’t repeat himself. That would be boring.”  
  
“And do you also understand that if any of those things were really happening that I would be doing something about it?” Sherlock mulled this over. Yes, that made sense. John wasn’t the sitting-down type. He was the jumping-into-danger-headfirst type. He nodded. “So do you understand that the coke is making you paranoid, and none of that is really happening?”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock made an effort to calm himself; to stop pacing. His eyes continued to sweep the room; he seemed particularly concerned about the window.  
  
“Sit down.” John got him seated on the bed and calmly took his pulse; looked closely at his eyes and skin. Then he sat down next to his friend and patted one vibrating knee. “What can I do to help?” he inquired.  
  
“Why do you… why do you do that?”  
  
“Why do I do what?”  
  
“Why do you… always… the helping thing.”  
  
“That’s what I do. You know that.”  
  
“No. No. It’s… something. I can’t think.” His head dropped into his hands. “God, John. I can’t think. I can’t think! What am I doing to myself?”  
  
John pulled him sideways into a hug. “So much for the coke making you sharper, yeah?” Sherlock whimpered. “But you’re right. I like helping. I want to help. So this is what I can do right now. You’ve been making a lot of bad choices lately, so why don’t you let me make some decisions for you for a bit, all right? Can you do that?” Sherlock nodded. “Good. That was a good choice. And what I’d like you to do now is to get some sleep. Get ready for bed.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Yes, you can. That clothing is nasty. Let’s get you changed and into bed, all right?”  
  
John found pyjama bottoms and a worn t-shirt. Pulled the unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders and undid his flies. “Step in,” he requested as he guided Sherlock’s feet into the bottoms. “Hips up. Good job. Now, arms up.” He slid the shirt over the tangled curls. “Tomorrow I think a bath would be a good idea. Wash your hair?”  
  
Yes, that would be acceptable.  
  
“Lie down.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?” the doctor asked patiently.  
  
“I don’t want to go to sleep.”  
  
“You’re exhausted. You have to sleep.”  
  
“What if I don’t wake up?” he whispered.  
  
_Oh, Sherlock_. “Do you want me to stay with you? Because I will.” His flatmate nodded a bit frantically. “All right. I’m going to go change and I’ll be right back. Can you manage for just a few minutes?”  
  
“I don’t know.” He sounded very earnest.  
  
“I think… no. I _know_ you can. Just a few minutes. Here.” The doctor grabbed a few of the books from the floor. “Focus on these. Pick one and I’ll read to you for a bit, all right?”  
  
Sherlock nodded wordlessly and tried very hard not to cry when John walked out of the room; out of his sight.  
  
*  
  
“See? I’m back, just like I said. Did you pick a book?” His mate just looked at him with wide eyes and offered the pile of books back. “You want me to pick? All right. Budge over—whichever side you want.” Sherlock’s eyes reflected panic. “Oh, sorry. My mistake. I’ll take the side closest to the door.” He watched as the thin man slid across the bed, not taking his eyes off the older man. John propped a few pillows up against the headboard and slid under the covers. He really could get used to this bedding, he thought. He glanced at the covers, selected one, opened it to the bookmark (a piece of blue litmus paper), and began to read.  
  
“Chapter Four. Arsenic.”  
  
John read for several minutes, thrilled that Sherlock was actually lying down and was still. He got to a good place to pause and glanced over. “Sherlock?” he whispered. “Oh, thank God.” He was asleep.  
  
*  
  
_Sherlock?_ John reached out, relieved when he felt a warm body still next to him. He rolled over and wrapped his arm protectively around the too-thin waist.  
  
*  
  
_This feels so nice,_ Sherlock thought drowsily. He was facing away from the door and John was curled up behind him, his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. He grabbed John’s hand so it would stay there.  
  
*  
  
Morning. Cold, grey day. John stretched. Oh, that mattress. Lovely. He looked over at his mate, catching him just as he opened his eyes. “Good morning,” he smiled.  
  
“Guh… mmng.”  
  
“Close enough. You slept.” Sherlock nodded. “Was it easier with me here?”  
  
The lanky man looked closely at his mate, then stretched and rolled so his back was to the doctor. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked.  
  
“What? Being here in bed with you?”  
  
“Yes. You expend a great deal of time and energy telling people that we’re not a couple—and yet here we are, sharing a bed. It seems contradictory.”  
  
“I’m not in bed with you because we’re a couple. I did it because it helped you to sleep and it made it easier for me to keep an eye on you,” John pointed out.  
  
“Aren’t you concerned that people will talk?”  
  
“They already do. They think we’ve been shagging… sorry… sleeping together for months, and I can’t seem to convince anyone otherwise. It doesn’t really matter what I do or say one way or the other. And who’s going to find out anyway? I’m not going to tell anyone, and neither are you.” John nodded at his own very sensible statement.  
  
“Why do people call it ‘sleeping together’ when they mean exactly the opposite? Not sleeping, I mean.”  
  
“That’s a good question.” John began to rub Sherlock’s back through the duvet.  
  
“People are confusing,” he grumbled, his eyes shutting again.  
  
“Yes, they are.”  
  
“That feels nice.”  
  
“Yeah? Good. Do you want to try to get more sleep? You need it.”  
  
“Victor never would have done this.”  
  
John’s hand stopped moving. “Never would have done what?” he inquired hesitantly.  
  
“Slept with me. I mean, actual sleeping, like we were doing. Or this, now.”  
  
“No?” His hand started moving again. “Where did that come from? Why are you bringing him up now?”  
  
“We were talking about sex. Do keep up.”  
  
“Wait. Sherlock—” Alarms were sounding in John’s head. He sat up and peered over, trying to see Sherlock’s face. “What are you saying? I thought you said that you were just friends.”  
  
“I said that we weren’t in a _relationship,_ ” Sherlock snapped. He rolled further away, all the way to the edge of the mattress.  
  
John considered this. Sherlock was the devil when it came to nuances of language. “What are you telling me?” He swallowed. His mouth was starting to feel quite dry. “Are you saying that you two… Did you…?”  
  
“Did we have sexual intercourse?” Sherlock responded drily.  
  
“Yeah, that,” John managed to spit out.  
  
“Victor and I did things.”  
  
“Things? What sort of things, Sherlock?”  
  
“I don’t know… I don’t know what you would consider _sex,_ per se.”  
  
“Okay. Fair enough.” John cleared his throat. _This was going to be interesting._ He was suddenly grateful that Sherlock wasn’t facing him. He could feel his face getting hotter. “Umm... was there kissing?”  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
Was it John’s imagination, or did Sherlock’s voice sound a bit strained, too? _Oh, definitely in treacherous territory. Sorry. You were the one who brought it up._ “Did you touch each other?” _Well,_ that _was awkward._  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
“Did you… use your mouths?” _How much more awkward could this get?_  
  
“You mean on each other? Yes and no.”  
  
“What does that mean?” John frowned.  
  
“Victor wouldn’t… he just wanted me to—to him.”  
  
“But he didn’t reciprocate?” Sherlock shook his head. “That sort of sucks.” Sherlock shrugged, but his back tightened. _So, not a pleasant memory. Shit, Sherlock. I’m sorry. But I’m starting to understand what your brother—and The Woman—meant about you being a virgin. So Victor had all the fun? What else did that mean? Shit._ He had to ask. He didn’t want to ask. But he really wanted to understand what the ‘not relationship’ had been and what it meant to his friend. He took a deep breath, staring intently at the back of Sherlock’s head. “Did you do anything else?” _Please don’t make me spell it out,_ John begged silently.  
  
“Do you mean penetration?” _Oh, thank God._ Count on Sherlock to bring the clinical into the conversation.  
  
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” John replied in relief.  
  
“Once.” His tone was clear—no more discussion on the topic. That was fine with John.  
  
“But there was no actual relationship?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Did you like being with each other? Did you do anything together other than sex?”  
  
“No. Not really. Not outside classes. He didn’t like—”  
  
“Didn’t like what?”  
  
Sherlock’s voice was flat. Distant. “Victor had a rule. No one was supposed to know. Outside of his room, I couldn’t touch him. No one was supposed to know what we were doing.”  
  
“God, Sherlock. That’s awful. No, that’s not a relationship. That is just rather one-sided sex and a dickhead instead of a friend. I’m sorry you had to experience that.”  
  
John’s mobile rang. It was Lestrade.  
  
It had been a hell of a week.  
  
It would turn out to be a hell of a month.


	6. Chapter 6

“Do you want something to eat?” John inquired gently. His breakfast was long done, but he was perfectly willing to make something—anything—for Sherlock to eat. But no, he just wanted coffee. And nothing else. The intimacy of their conversation earlier that morning had evaporated. Sherlock had emerged from the bedroom in a foul mood. Had he gone back to sleep in the two hours since John had slid out of the bed to take Lestrade’s call? The doctor had deliberately not bothered or checked on him, and since he hadn’t heard anything, he thought that yes he had.  
  
Now he wasn’t sure.  
  
Sherlock shuddered at John’s suggestion about eating. He felt awful. His joints felt too tight and his skin felt too loose and his head ached and his hair hurt…  
  
His _hair_ hurt.  
  
He knew what he wanted. He knew what he needed. And… he thought about it. All right. Yes. Perhaps a shower would be a good idea. “Um… I think I’m going to have a shower,” he announced.  
  
John watched him stride into the bathroom, slamming that door behind him. He blinked in disbelief. Did the man have so little respect for his intellect that he thought that would actually work? Really? It wasn’t as if John hadn’t heard that tone before: _“Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don’t think we’ve met.” “Um, I’ve just been attacked, um, and, um, I think they ... they took my wallet and, um, and my phone. Umm, please could you help me?”_  
  
He also couldn’t believe that after all this time it hadn’t occurred to Sherlock to install a deadbolt on the bathroom or bedroom door. Well, almost couldn’t believe it. Sherlock was above such mundane things. And an idiot.  
  
*  
  
“Could I have some privacy?”  
  
John snorted and rolled his eyes. “Are you joking? After me changing you and stitching you up and sharing a bed with you, now you want privacy for a shower?”  
  
Sherlock glared at him.  
  
“I’m not an idiot. I know you want your stash. Well, tough. I’m pretty sure I found all of that.”  
  
Sherlock’s glare softened. He began to look a bit nervous.  
  
“And yes, I know that you feel like shit.”  
  
“Then help me. Let me have what I want,” Sherlock hissed. Why the fuck hadn’t he put a deadbolt on the door?  
  
And then he couldn’t help himself. He glanced toward it.  
  
John caught the glance.  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Oh, is that where it is? Thanks for that.” John glanced coldly up and down the wall—there it was. The tiniest of spaces around a tile. He plunged toward it at the same time as Sherlock. Easily beat him. Easily pushed him off. He was so off his game that he actually lost his balance and fell backward, his back hitting the edge of the tub as he tumbled ungracefully to the floor. Two seconds with his strong fingers and John had the tile pried off. The hiding hole exposed. He didn’t hesitate—plunged his fingers in, withdrawing—  
  
“God, Sherlock, how the fuck much do you have in here?” It was a mixture of vials and plastic bags and paraphernalia and all sorts of horrible things that John didn’t want to see, but there was no stopping him now. He spent several minutes rummaging around in the hole.  
  
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.  
  
He had found it all. It was Sherlock’s best hiding place—had been for ages—and now it was empty; bereft.  
  
And there it all went—out the door. With John. Out the door.  
  
Sherlock turned on the shower, but he had to sit on the floor of the tub—his wobbling legs wouldn’t support him a second longer.  
  
He sat there until the water ran cold.  
  
And then he continued to sit.  
  
*  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock.” Turn off the taps. Find a towel. Help a shivering mess up and over and—  
  
It’s okay it’s going to be okay let me dry you off let me warm you up come on get back into bed let me cover you up here’s an extra blanket  
  
Resist the urge to crawl into bed with him  
  
To hold him  
  
To cuddle him as he shivered  
  
Why?  
  
Why resist?  
  
*  
  
“I’m sorry I had to do that.”  
  
…  
  
“Sherlock? I said that I’m sorry.”  
  
…  
  
“Okay. You can be as angry as you want. The stuff’s gone.”  
  
*  
  
He hadn’t found the last stash of razors.  
  
Oh thank God.


	7. Chapter 7

“Thanks for meeting me. I don’t know what the hell to do anymore,” John mumbled.  
  
“I’ll dispose of all that, but John, you know I should technically have him arrested.”  
  
“You didn’t find it; there’s no ways of knowing where it came from. I found it in the park and I’m doing my civic duty by turning it over to the police.” He took a sip of his tea.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Greg sighed. “Arresting him isn’t going to help, anyway—is it?”  
  
“Not in the slightest. You know that his brother could get all the charges dropped before you even had the paperwork done.” John ran his finger along the edge of the thick mug. “And it certainly wouldn’t fix the problem.”  
  
Greg stared into his own mug of coffee. He had taken a lunch break so he could get away from work for a bit to meet John at the café. “Will _anything_ fix it?” he wondered aloud.  
  
John’s expression was stricken. “Oh, God, don’t think like that. Yeah, he’s an addict and has food issues and cuts and is driving himself mad without a new case… well, _that_ sounded like crap, yeah? He’s a mess.”  
  
“What was it about that case that got to him so badly? Was it that case? Has he said anything?”  
  
“I can’t get him to talk about it, but yeah, I think it’s directly related. He was relatively okay before that.”  
  
“How about I dig around some? Maybe I can find out more.”  
  
“Would you? That would be a help. Any connection between him and the Atkinsons. Not that knowing what it is will necessarily fix anything, but it’s a start.”  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock? I’m back. I’m sorry…”  
  
No Sherlock in the sitting room. Or the kitchen.  
  
The shower was running. Ah. Better check on him. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t get a shampoo bottle thrown at him. That was odd. The bathroom wasn’t as steamy as it usually got. Maybe he had just gotten—  
  
No.  
  
The water was ice cold and Sherlock’s lips and fingertips were blue.  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock.”  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock, finally warmed up, had managed to dress himself. He walked into the kitchen and went directly to some petri dishes lined up on the counter. “Interesting,” he commented, grabbing a notebook and scribbling something in it.  
  
“Is that the nail scrapings?” John asked. Because let’s not talk about anything, right? Let’s not talk about what had happened that morning and the night before and the week before.  
  
“Mmm. Left hand is growing quite the colony of bacteria, but not the right. Interesting.”  
  
“So you were right about the killer disinfecting the right hand of each victim.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“No idea.”  
  
“Oh, right. You don’t get involved in messy things like emotions, do you?” John bit his lip as soon as he had spat out the accusation.   
  
Sherlock frowned and closed the notebook. “No, I don’t. I deal with scientific facts.”  
  
John couldn’t stand it any longer. He slammed his laptop shut and faced his friend. “Then it’s a scientific fact that you’re wrong.”  
  
“Me? Wrong?”  
  
“Yes. You. Wrong. You think that you don’t get involved in emotions, but I think I can safely say that you’ve been fairly wallowing in them lately.”  
  
“Take that back,” Sherlock snarled.  
  
“It’s true and you know it. I’m fairly sure I didn’t imagine our discussion this morning.”  
  
They glared at each other. Oh, John should have become a dentist—he was so good at hitting raw nerves. “I wasn’t myself this morning,” he finally replied with dignity.  
  
“No. You’re wrong about that. For once you actually were entirely yourself.”  
  
“I’m not talking about it anymore and I’ll thank you to do the same.”  
  
“Nope. That’s not going to work. You need to talk about these things. They’re eating you up inside.”  
  
“Oh, good. Is this a new episode?” he spat out bitterly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You know. Those awful daytime programmes where idiots tell everyone their deepest secrets.” His tone grew snide. “‘Daddy likes to wear Mummy’s clothes.’ ‘I had a thing for my kid’s P.E. teacher.’ ‘I’m addicted to cats.’”  
  
“’I’m addicted to cocaine and being an arsehole.’” John shot back. “’And self-harm and I’m also sort of possessive of my food issues and my professed lack of empathy.’”  
  
“Get out.” His tone was dark; dangerous.  
  
“Get out of what? Out of the flat? No, I don’t think so.”  
  
“Yes. Get out of my flat. Go!” He gestured angrily towards the door.  
  
“Your flat? Really? I think you mean ‘our flat’ and I’m not leaving it.”  
  
“You only live here because I took pity on you,” the taller man snarled.  
  
“Sure. And ever since then, you’ve shown how much pity by making me your bloody housekeeper and punching bag. Terrific hospitality.” John had turned in his desk chair and was now gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles were white.  
  
“Go away! I can’t stand the sight of you.” Sherlock’s hands were clenched into fists.  
  
“Then why don’t _you_ leave?”  
  
“What?!” Sherlock was outraged.  
  
“Yeah. Leave. Go on. Go hook up with your dealer. Refill your stash. Or shoot all of it at once. Whatever you like.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock looked perplexed now; the haughty expression slowly fading from his face.  
  
“I mean,” John continued in a slightly lower tone, “that I’m done with this. I clearly can’t help you. Can’t change you. Can’t fix you. And until you’re ready to fix yourself, nothing is going to change, so you might as well get it over with.”  
  
“John?”  
  
“You’re right. It’s your body. Your brain. You can do whatever you like to it. I have no right to interfere.”  
  
“I…”  
  
“I’ve been wasting my time. You’re far too happy being miserable; why should you change?”  
  
Sherlock stood silently. John watched his face as it mirrored his swirling emotions.  
  
After a few minutes, John stepped around him and headed up the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock flinched as the door slammed shut. Then he shook himself, found his coat and scarf, and headed out. “If you say so, Doctor,” he muttered.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

“Oh, Christ. Where are you?”  
  
“Uhh… Marblearsh.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Marble Arsh,” he tried more distinctly.  
  
“Marble Arch?”  
  
“Mmm. Tube… over there.”  
  
“You’re near the Tube station? All right. I’ll come get you. Stay put.”  
  
John shoved his feet into his shoes, swearing a blue streak.  
  
*  
  
“Do you need to go to A & E?” John spoke as firmly and clearly as he could.  
  
“Nuh…”  
  
“Do you think you overdosed? Sherlock! Answer me.”  
  
“No. Just. Sick.”  
  
“Yes, you’ve been sick twice already—and that cleaning fee went on your card—do you feel like it’s going to happen again?”  
  
A nod.  
  
“Here.” John shoved the bucket into the shaking hands. Watched dispassionately as it was used. Took it away. Emptied and rinsed it and brought it back out to where Sherlock was slumped in his chair. He grabbed one thin wrist and glanced at his watch. Counted. Pried open one eye not terribly gently. Turned and dug his blood pressure cuff and stethoscope out of his bag. Made a note of the numbers. “You’re probably right,” he finally declared, “but it’s a really close thing.” Put the equipment away. Washed his hands at the kitchen sink. Returned to the sitting room.  
  
“Time for bed,” he commanded. Yanked the quivering man up and shoved him in the direction of his bedroom. “Get that clothing off and change into pyjamas.”  
  
He stood at the doorway to the room, watching as the taller man stumbled into it, pulling somewhat ineffectively at his shirt buttons. He finally managed to get it opened and off. He sat on the bed and ripped off his shoes and socks and managed to unfasten his flies. Then he glanced blearily in the doctor’s direction.  
  
“You have to stand up to take those off,” John pointed out coldly.  
  
It took another ten minutes, but Sherlock was finally in something more comfortable than his suit. John watched the entire time, an expression that the detective didn’t recognize on his face.  
  
“Bed. Now.” John pointed at it, then walked away from the door. Sherlock listened to his firm footsteps with a frown before figuring out how to pull the duvet down. He fell into the soft bedding, moaning as the throbbing in his head turned into a horrible pounding in his ears.  
  
“Here,” John said brusquely. Sherlock jumped; he hadn’t heard him return. The bucket was placed next to the bed and a glass of water was deposited on the bedside table.  
  
“John,” Sherlock rasped. His lips felt raw and his gums hurt.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Thank you.” They were the last coherent words John would hear from him for two days, and he didn’t respond.   
  



	10. Chapter 10

John finished his breakfast, dropped his dishes in the sink, and headed for the bathroom. He had agreed to take an afternoon shift at the surgery. Time for a shower.  
  
He paused before going into the bathroom and poked his head into Sherlock’s bedroom. “Shit,” he sighed in exasperation as he spotted the empty bed. He walked around it and looked down at the floor. “Sherlock,” he said, quietly at first. No response. “Sherlock!” he said more loudly, this time prodding the figure with one foot. “SHERLOCK! Get back into bed this instant!” he finally commanded.  
  
The naked figure lying on his stomach on the floor between the bed and the bureau groaned.  
  
“Where did your pyjamas go?” the doctor added.  
  
“Hot.” His flatmate made an attempt to roll over onto his back.  
  
“All right. You were hot. You took them off. Where are they?”  
  
One long-fingered hand made a sort of waving motion toward the bed. John huffed in annoyance and dug the sweat-soaked garments out of the tangled bedclothes. “I leave you alone for an hour, and this is what you do? What happened?” He watched as Sherlock finally managed to roll onto his back and then sit up. “Do you want these or fresh ones?” he asked, looking down at him. “These are filthy.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter.” He accepted the garments but made no move to put them on, deciding that holding his head in his hands was a better option.  
  
“Headache?” John asked, not terribly sympathetically. “Do you want something for it?”  
  
“Please,” the deep voice rasped.  
  
John nodded and went to fetch some tablets.  
  
When he returned, Sherlock had managed to get his pyjama bottoms on and get back into the bed. The t-shirt that he had been wearing for two days was discarded on the floor. “Here,” the older man said, thrusting a glass of water at him. “And these,” he added, attempting to put the tablets into one of his hands.  
  
After three attempts and two warnings that he was about to dump the glass of water into the sheets, he gave up. This was getting him nowhere and he knew what he had to do. Grabbing the glass back, he plunked himself onto the bed not at all gently. His nose wrinkled. “God, Sherlock. You are _rank._ You need a long, hot shower and these sheets need to possibly be thrown away,” he commented sourly. “Now, sit up a bit and take these.”  
  
The thin man slid himself up against the headboard, his eyes shut.  
  
“Oh, come on, Sherlock. I know you feel like crap, but I haven’t got all day. Take the damn tablets and drink the damn water and while I’m at work, get in the fucking shower. And I expect you to change the bedding and do a load of laundry.”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth in protest and John quickly popped the tablets in. “Here,” he ordered brusquely. “Drink.” He held the glass up to his flatmate’s lips. Sherlock choked a bit but got down half the glass before pushing it away.  
  
“Are you all right?” John asked, somewhat more gently. He brushed back some of the damp curls from his mate’s forehead.  
  
“Leave me alone.”   
  
John paused. “You don’t sound all right,” he commented quietly.  
  
“I’m not. Just leave me alone.”  
  
“Maybe I shouldn’t go in.” John’s hand now moved from Sherlock’s forehead to his wrist, groping for his pulse. The thin man yanked his arm away from him.  
  
“I said leave me alone!” he shouted. Then he abruptly turned over, away from the doctor, and pulled the covers over his head.  
  
John stared at the lump for two minutes before making up his mind and heading to the bathroom for his shower.  
  



	11. Chapter 11

> Where are you? SH
> 
> Work. I told you
> 
> You did not. SH
> 
> Im not going to argue. Im working. Did you shower and do laundry?
> 
> Do we have apples? SH
> 
> No did you shower and do laundry?
> 
> I will. SH
> 
> You better. I have to go
> 
> Are you coming home? SH
> 
> Yes of course when Im done working
> 
> When? SH
> 
> 6 or so. Shower and do laundry before then and I’ll bring home apples. 

*

“Oh, come _on,_ Sherlock. One day. I am asking for one day with no bleeding or flying or crying in this fucking flat.”

“It’s not _my_ fault.” He rubbed his reddened cheek.

“It most certainly is.” John righted the upturned chair.

“Says who?” he snarled.

“Says the very upset woman who just slapped you before she nearly knocked me down on her way out.”

“She was a moron. I solved her little problem for her, but she didn’t like the solution.” Sherlock flopped onto the sofa and pouted.

“What do you mean?”

“When people come to me, they generally aren’t coming for a lark. They rarely get good news.”

“That’s true,” John admitted as he picked up some scattered papers and put them on the desk.

“So why is everyone so offended when I tell them the truth?”

“What did you tell her?” John scooped up the Union Jack pillow and returned it to his chair.

“That her stepson hadn’t stolen her jewellery; her husband did.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, but I don’t see why she got so upset with you.”

“I suppose it was pointing out that her husband was giving her jewellery to his girlfriend—”

“Sherlock!”

“Did you bring apples?”

“Don’t change the subject. Why the hell would you tell her that?”

“Because it was true. Did you?”

“Was it necessary to tell her? I mean, did it matter why he was stealing it?” John crossed his arms and waited.

“I don’t know. Does it matter?” Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

“It mattered to her. You have to be more sensitive to people’s feelings, you git. Nicer,” John huffed, stooping and picking up the cigarette butt. He held it out accusatorily but the effect was lost on his mad mate, who was stretched out on the sofa, his eyes shut and his hands pressed together under his chin.

“Why?”

“Why should you be nicer?”

“Yes. Why should I be nicer to people? People certainly aren’t nicer to me.”

John made a noise that made Sherlock open his eyes and turn his head rather sharply. He scowled at him, trying to parse out the expression. After a minute he gave up and shut his eyes again. It wasn’t as if he expected or wanted people to be nicer to him. That hadn’t happened in… well… ever, as far as he could tell. Or almost forever.

>   
>  _Maybe he’s overwhelmed by the crowd._
> 
> _Yes, that’s it. We’re taking him home. Yes, Mikey?_
> 
> _He hasn’t gotten his present from Father Christmas yet._
> 
> _Oh. Yes. I don’t think…_
> 
> _Shall I get it for him and give it to him later?_
> 
> _Mycroft, you are angel. Yes, please. And Mycroft, make sure…_
> 
> _Make sure it’s got no pointy bits. Yes, Mummy._   
> 

They thought he hadn’t heard.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock eyed his mobile suspiciously. Was anyone tracking him with it?   
  
John watched in disbelief as his flatmate edged over to the door that led out to the hallway. He opened it cautiously, peering up and down the shadowed steps and into the corners. Finally, apparently convinced that there was no one lurking in the darkness, he turned off and tossed his mobile to the floor, shutting the door again quickly.  
  
“What the fuck was that about?” the doctor demanded.  
  
“If I use my mobile, they can trace it and find me.” Sherlock scuttled over to the windows and began examining the drapes, ensuring that they were shut.  
  
“And if ‘they’ find you, how are you going to call for help if you don’t have your mobile?”  
  
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, panic on his face. “I… uh….”  
  
“What would you do?’” John pursued.   
  
Sherlock spun in a tight circle. He ran his hand through his hair. “Mycroft?” he tried.  
  
“If you’re hiding from the snipers, he can’t find you, either,” John replied coldly.  
  
“I…” Sherlock’s mind spun. What would he do? Was he trapped in the flat? No. Of course not. He could always go out his bedroom window. Unless that was where they were waiting for him. That was how The Woman had gotten in, after all, and John thought he was being paranoid then when he clearly wasn’t and he proved that he wasn’t because it occurred to even dim John that she had had The Coat and then it was back and how had she done that? (He shuddered when he thought of the lovely thing touching her bare skin— _all_ of her bare skin—that was just sort of disgusting.)  
  
John, still and silent as he seethed, watched as the taller man got lost in his own thoughts, frowning as whatever was sailing around in his great brain alighted on something apparently unpleasant--he winced and his nose wrinkled. What the hell was he thinking about?  
  
With a sigh, he went out into the hallway and retrieved Sherlock’s mobile.  
  



	13. Chapter 13

“Hey, Greg, what’s up?”  
  
“I haven’t heard from you. You two okay?” There was a pointed silence. “So…” the DI finally ventured, attempting to fill the void, “not okay then?”  
  
“Not even vaguely,” the doctor replied bluntly, his voice tight.  
  
“Shit. Do you want to meet up somewhere; tell me about it?”  
  
John thought about this for a few seconds, and then he answered rather brutally, “I can’t leave him. I don’t trust him to not sneak out or even… fuck, Greg. I don’t trust him not to hurt himself just walking around the flat.”  
  
“Are you joking?” The DI, who was seated at his office desk, turned his chair so that his back was to the door. “What’s going on?”  
  
“He’s a mess. I think I finally find the last of his stashes and he’s got another five waiting for me. I can’t keep up. He’s a wreck. He can barely stand up. Yesterday I literally caught him right before his head would’ve hit the mantle. I can’t take my eyes off him for a second unless he’s sleeping, and the only way I can get him to do that is to—” He interrupted himself.  
  
“John?” Greg finally prodded, gently. “Do you want me to come over there?”  
  
“Erm… I don’t know if that’d be a good idea. He’s not exactly up for company.”  
  
“I’m hardly ‘company,’” he pointed out.  
  
“No, but I think having someone else here right now would just piss him off. He shouts at poor Mrs Hudson just for bringing the mail up.”  
  
“A little shouting wouldn’t bother me.”  
  
“No,” the doctor replied slowly. “It’s not just that. I don’t think that I want you to see him like this.”  
  
 _Oh, John,_ Greg mourned silently. “It’s not on you,” he pointed out. “It’s not your fault he’s like that.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” The bitterness of John’s words made Greg’s stomach clench. “I’m the one who takes care of him. I’m the one who mops up after him and tries to feed him and keep him clean. I’m the one he trusts. The only one. And I’m failing him.”  
  
“You can’t save everyone.”  
  
“I’m not trying to save _everyone_! I’m trying to save _him_!”  
  
“Easy—“  
  
“Hell. He’s… Sherlock! Put that down! Look—I’ve got to go.” He cut off the call without another word.  
  
*  
  
A few hours later, Greg Lestrade jumped into his car to head home. Since the call to John had ended, he had been turning it over and over in his head.  
  
 _“I’m not trying to save_ everyone! _I’m trying to save_ him!”  
  
The ferocity in his voice had startled Greg. The undertone—that made him wonder.  
  
He didn’t surprise himself in the slightest when he headed for Baker Street instead.  
  



	14. Chapter 14

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” Greg encouraged. “It’s going to be all right.”  
  
The evening had been one for the books. He had arrived at dinner time. Mrs Hudson let him in, a worried look on her face. She just pointed up toward the ceiling and he nodded. He could hear the shouting. He bounded up the stairs and straight in without knocking.  
  
“If you’re not going to eat it, then put it down before you drop—” There was a crash. “FUCK, Sherlock! I told you to put it down. Go sit down in the other room while I clean this up.”  
  
Sherlock had stalked unsteadily into the sitting room and nearly fell over when he caught sight of the DI. “What are you doing here?” he demanded haughtily. He was wearing a dressing gown over a buttoned shirt and trousers and he shoved his hands into the pockets, but not before Greg noticed how badly they were shaking.  
  
“What are you talking about now?” came John’s voice. He sounded exhausted.  
  
“It’s just me,” Greg called out.  
  
“Greg? I told you not--”  
  
“Did you talk to him? Did you phone him? Is he spying on me now, too?” The thin man turned back toward the kitchen as John walked out. He had a roll of kitchen towels in his hand.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock. I did talk to him. No, he is not spying on you. Sit DOWN!”  
  
Greg jumped at the sudden command, looking back as the pale man swayed. “Christ!” he exclaimed. He reached out and grabbed him. “Okay. I’ve got you,” he murmured, steadying him. “Come sit down.” He gently directed the (my God Sherlock how much weight have you lost?) far-too-thin man to his chair and helped him collapse into it.  
  
John mouthed “thank you” and returned to the kitchen. Greg heard water running and then the doctor was there with a glass of water and a litany of assurances: “Come on. You have to drink some of this. Do you want an apple? I can cut it up for you—you like them with lemon juice and cinnamon sugar, don’t you? I promise to peel it. I know you don’t like the peels.”  
  
The dark-haired man slumped in the soft chair looked confused and upset and—scared. Fuck. Sherlock Holmes—a man who quite literally leaped between tall buildings and who had once successfully subdued two armed housebreakers on his own, with just a fire poker—looked utterly terrified.  
  
“I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want me to come,” the silver-haired man offered as John, who had crouched in front of the chair so he could look into Sherlock’s drawn face, stroked his arm and continued to murmur soothingly to him.  
  
“It’s all right. Just—don’t tell anyone. I mean, how he is. Hey,” he redirected his attention to his flatmate, who was trying to get out of the chair. “Stay there. What do you want? I’ll get it for you.”  
  
“Notebook.”  
  
“Okay. Could you just watch him a second? The notebook he wants is in the bedroom.”  
  
“’course. That’s what I’m here for, actually.”  
  
John shot him a puzzled look as he headed down the hall, coming back quickly with a blue notebook in his hand. While he was out of sight, Greg noted that Sherlock had immediately looked terrified and tried to get up. He held a hand gently to his chest to keep him seated. “It’s all right. He’ll be right back,” he assured the panicking man.  
  
John handed him the notebook and a pencil, which he had to guide carefully into his hand. He wrapped the bony fingers around it and then squeezed gently; reassuringly. “Got that?” he asked, an encouraging tone to his voice.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied. God. He sounded so—so beaten.  
  
Shit, John. This is bad.  
  
They both watched as he carefully opened the notebook; his hands were shaking so badly it was nearly impossible for him to turn the pages. Eventually he found his place, though, and with a level of concentration that made Greg feel sick, he began to slowly, painfully write out some sort of chemical formula.  
  
“Okay for a bit?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and continued his slow scrawling.  
  
“Okay,” he affirmed. He looked at the DI. “If you want to talk, we can go to the kitchen. He can see us there.”  
  
Greg nodded wordlessly, understanding that it was reciprocal: John could see Sherlock as well. They moved to the other room, where the source of the crash was obvious: a shattered dinner plate and whatever it had held was spattered across the floor. “I’ll clean that up,” he said immediately, before John could even pick up the kitchen towels again. “You’ve done enough.”  
  
John watched him for a few seconds, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he sighed and said, so low that the other man could barely hear him, “No, apparently I haven’t.”  
  
“John…” Greg binned the mess and cleared his throat.  
  
“Mmm?” The doctor had taken a clean plate and knife out and put them on the table.  
  
“Yeah, you have. You have done enough. You’ve done more than enough. You need a break.”  
  
The shorter man tried to give him a stony stare, but his eyes reflected no fury. He took an apple from a bowl on the counter and sat down. Greg sat across from him and gently took the knife away. “Thin slices or thick?” he asked as he began to cut up the apple.  
  
“Medium. That’s good.”  
  
They sat in silence for a bit as Greg sliced and peeled the apple, arranging the wedges nicely on the plate. John tipped his head toward the fridge and he found the bottled lemon juice. He spotted the container of cinnamon sugar on his own; it was tucked neatly next to the regular sugar bowl. He gave a wry smile—it was exactly what his ex-wife—the first one—had done, and he suddenly realised that he missed treating himself to it in his morning coffee.  
  
He allowed the doctor to dress the apple slices—he was painfully aware that it was extremely important to do it a certain way—but he was the one to take it to Sherlock, who was still pencilling notes into the notebook. There had been a lot of rubbing out, he noticed. “He just uses his fingers,” John had supplied flatly, “but he’ll feed himself if we don’t watch.”  
  
The thin man jumped at the interruption, dropping the pencil. He made an attempt to look down at where it had gone. “I’ll get that, Sherlock,” Greg offered. “Here. John made you some apples. Why not have some?” He edged the notebook from the lax fingers and carefully got the plate into his grasp. Without a word Sherlock nodded. Greg deliberately turned back to the kitchen, and by the time he was re-seated at the table, one sticky slice was grasped tentatively and making its shaky way to the Cupid’s bow mouth.  
  
“Fuck,” he commented fervently.  
  
“Fuck, indeed,” the exhausted man still seated at the table affirmed.  
  
“Erm… John. I… shit, I don’t know how to say this nicely, so fuck it. He’s a fucking mess and you’re worn down to a stub.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And I know you didn’t want me to see him like this, but John, you can’t do this on your own. No one expects you to—except maybe you yourself.”  
  
John looked at him sadly. “And him.”  
  
“Well, okay, that’s going to stop right now. You have to get out of here for a bit. Take a break. I’m here. I’ll stay as long as you want. As long as you need.”  
  
“I can’t leave him. He’ll flip out.”  
  
“If you don’t get out of here, though, you’re going to fucking collapse yourself,” he pointed out firmly. “I can handle him for a bit. Go on. Take a break. I’ll even stay overnight if you need me to.”  
  
“Where… Sherlock? How are you doing?” He was staring at the plate. He had managed to eat half of the apple wedges but now looked a bit dubious. “Can you have a bit more?” John encouraged. On hearing his voice, he nodded slowly and ever so carefully picked up another slice. “Good job,” his mate said encouragingly. “Sorry.”  
  
“No. It’s fine. I needed to see this, John. I needed to know how bad it is. You don’t have to do this alone.” _God, please, John—please accept my help. I can’t bear to see either of you like this._  
  
“Where would I go?”  
  
“Dunno. Doesn’t matter. Out for a pint. Cinema? Hell, go talk to your landlady for a few hours. Watch some mindless telly. A last-minute date?” Greg was aware that he was rambling now. He grinned guiltily.   
  
“I don’t know.” His voice cracked.  
  
“You’re a doctor; you know what this is doing to you.”  
  
“Yeah, but…”  
  
“If you go down, what’s he going to do then?”  
  
There. That did it. Oh, thank God, Greg thought as John’s expression changed.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. I know. Maybe just… maybe just for an hour.”  
  
“A few hours.”  
  
“A few hours. Yeah. Really? Can you manage? I mean, can you manage him?”  
  
“It’s time that I did for a bit. Okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
*  
  
John put on his coat very, very slowly, his eyes fixed on his flatmate. Oblivious, Sherlock muttered to himself as he resumed scribbling in his notebook—he had eaten three-quarters of the apple slices and John had patiently taken away the plate and wiped his hands. “Are you sure about this?” he asked dismally.  
  
“Yes. We’ll be fine. Go on. Get out of here for a bit.”  
  
“What if you’re not fine?”  
  
“John, go away.”  
  
“He sometimes likes a glass of milk…”  
  
“John! I’ve got this. Get out of here!”  
  
John nodded and walked out the door somewhat dazedly.  
  
“Okay,” Greg said to himself. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before turning and giving an easy smile. “Hey, Sherlock! Looks like it’s just the two of us, yeah?”  
  
*  
  
Oh fuck. It had been a hell of an evening. Greg was happy to do it, for John’s sake. The doctor had phoned his mate Mike and had headed out to meet him somewhere, leaving Greg to deal with a Sherlock who was clearly not firmly attached to reality. Or sanity.  
  
Okay. Deal with him the way he’d deal with… a three-year-old having a meltdown at being left with a babysitter.  
  
“Where is John?” Whimpered.  
  
“Where is he?” Demanded.  
  
“I need him.” Sobbed.  
  
Okay. John had prepared him. Sherlock reacted best to calm logic and clear explanations. He could do that. “He went out to have a pint with Mike,” he explained as calmly as he could.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Well, Mike’s got a little one, doesn’t he? He probably needs a break now and again.”  
  
And yes, Sherlock had reacted well to this; he nodded emphatically. “John’s very good about… helping,” he replied confidingly.  
  
Oh, thank God. “Yeah, he is. So he’s out and I’m here. Have you been following those murders in Soho and Kent?” he added, hopefully casually.  
  
Yes, he had, and even strung out, messed up, weakened, and ill, the consulting detective had unravelled the case. He had rattled off several extremely useful points, such as “the man who pointed out that spilled drink actually spilled it himself” and “the window bars were bent to gain access, obviously, but why were they straightened again?” and “Good God, Lestrade, the man’s a psychopath; are you going to arrest him or shall I go to Mayfair and wrestle him to the ground for you?”  
  
It was quite like old times as long as Greg ignored the tremors and painfully thin face and the constant glances towards the door.  
  
And then holes began to puncture the calm. It was like watching a television when the images’ pixels began dropping out.  
  
It started with a silence, followed by, “When is John coming home?”  
  
And “Where’s my mobile? I want to remind him to bring home oranges.”  
  
And the most heart breaking: “I want him home. I want him here. I _need_ him here. Can you… he went away. Can you find him?”  
  
So Greg soothed him and reassured him and reminded him that John had sent a text—he was going to stay at Mike’s that night to help with the baby—John liked to help, remember?  
  
Yes. That’s right. All right.  
  
As John had advised, Greg quite literally didn’t take his eyes off the man the entire evening, and eventually, when he got him changed and into bed, he kicked off his shoes and took off his belt and slid onto the bed next to him, assuring him over (and over—and over) that John would be back in the morning and he would stay the night and no there wasn’t anyone trying to come in the window and get back into bed, Sherlock and it’s okay—I’ve got you. It’s going to be all right.  
  
It was going to be all right.  
  
It had to be all right.  
  
Oh, God, please let it be all right.  
  



	15. Chapter 15

John re-appeared around 7.30 in the morning. Greg was fumbling through the process of making himself coffee in the unfamiliar kitchen. He was a bit more grateful for the appearance of the paper cups of steaming hot caffeine than he ever cared to admit.  
  
“How is he?” was the first and immediate and urgent question.  
  
“Still sleeping.”  
  
John had immediately gone to check on him. Greg sipped his coffee (far better than anything he could make, he admitted—he had never gotten the hang of a coffee press) and waited.  
  
“Yeah,” John agreed, re-joining him. “What time did he go down?”  
  
“Uh… two?”  
  
The doctor nodded. “I can’t thank you enough, Greg. I really needed…”  
  
“The break. Yeah. I just wish you had asked me sooner. I had no idea…” his voice petered out; embarrassment engulfed him. Why the hell hadn’t he seen this sooner? Done something sooner? “How did you make out?” he asked instead.  
  
“Mike and his wife were fine with me staying. And their baby is just a love.”  
  
Greg chuckled softly. “Only you,” he commented.  
  
“Only me what?” John smiled back a bit confusedly.  
  
“Only you would find something positive to say about spending a night on a mate’s sofa because your flatmate was having a breakdown.”  
  
John’s smile didn’t falter all that much. He shrugged instead. “I take what I can get,” he explained modestly.  
  
“Erm… look. I’ve got to—“  
  
“Get to work. No. That’s fine. I can’t tell you—I feel so much better already. Thanks for the break. How was it, by the way?”  
  
“Not bad. Not really. Well, he wasn’t happy that you weren’t here, but I distracted him with those mutilations.”  
  
“Did he solve it?” John asked somewhat wistfully.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
They both smiled.  
  
“John!” The deep voice startled both of them. Sherlock was there, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “How’s Mike and… uh… his… ummm…”  
  
“wife Melody? They’re great. And the baby’s adorable.”  
  
“Good. Good. Is someone making coffee?”  
  
“Sherlock! I _got_ you coffee. Come sit and have some,” John directed. He was answered with a frown.  
  
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.  
  
“Downstairs—Speedy’s? We do live over a café,” John responded coolly. “Now, come have some of what I got for you. You’ll like it—it’s a treat. My treat.”  
  
Sherlock sat down hesitantly but was immediately distracted by the offered paper cup. He sniffed it deeply. “Oh! Cinnamon?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Greg was gratified beyond words when Sherlock yanked the top off the cup and began to drink eagerly. “This is lovely,” he even commented. “Thank you,” he added, shyly.  
  
“Anything for you,” John replied.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
 _Oh my._  
  
 _Oh I get it now._  
  
 _Dang. Time to head out._ He went to grab his shoes and belt, still hearing:  
  
“Is Stamford refreshed?”  
  
“Yeah. He’s great. Do you want to see pictures of the baby?”  
  
“Why would I want to do that? Don’t all babies look like Winston Churchill?”  
  
John laughed. “Yeah, they do.”  
  
“I missed you, but Graham was surprisingly acceptable company.”  
  
“That’s good. I missed you, too. Do you want an apple, or an orange? How about a banana?”  
  
Greg Lestrade snuck out of the flat, a sad smile on his face.  
  



	16. Chapter 16

Fuck, Sherlock. Be careful.  
  
No, I’m not going to get you three human ears.  
  
All right, but only if Molly says it’s all right.  
  
Molly Hooper, you berk.  
  
Oh. Six ears? Well then.  
  
Will you be all right while I’m out?  
  
It’s all right. Don’t.  
  
Okay. I won’t go out. It’s fine.  
  
No, it’s really fine. I like it—just the two of us.  
  
Oh, Sherlock. You’re all right. I know. It startled me, too. Come here.  
  
John Watson shut his eyes as he held his flatmate, who had nearly jumped out of his skin when a car horn suddenly blasted directly under their window.  
  
It was fine. Wasn’t it?  
  



	17. Chapter 17

“Where the hell have you been?” John spat out. He had been pacing and texting and phoning frantically since he had woken up to discover that Sherlock was gone. He hadn’t even considered going out to look for him—he had no clue where to start. He had considered contacting Mycroft and having him tap into his bloody CCTV cameras, but he was afraid that that would become very messy very quickly—and more than likely end up with Sherlock being taken away.  
  
“I was picking up those ears Molly promised me,” the detective explained with a puzzled look on his face.  
  
“Is that all?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why don’t I believe you?”  
  
“I have no idea,” he shrugged carelessly.  
  
“If that’s all you picked up, you won’t mind if I search you, right?” John looked him up and down.  
  
“I’d rather you didn’t.” Sherlock bit his lip in regret, realising that he had just revealed himself. But what else could he do?  
  
“So let’s make this easy on both of us. Give it to me right now and this conversation can end. Okay?”  
  
Sherlock put down the small cooler he was holding and opened it. Without looking at his flatmate, he handed the bag over. Then he dug into his coat pockets and handed him two more.  
  
“Thank you,” John said stiffly, uncomfortably accepting the bags. “Any more?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Fine. Don’t leave those ears there. Put them in the kitchen.”


	18. Chapter 18

“No, sorry. I can’t make it.” John shook his head.  
  
“Oh, come on, John. It’s just a night out. Some cards. Some drinks. You look like you could use it,” Wilson pressed.  
  
“Yeah, I know. It’s just—erm… I’ve got something else to do.”   
  
“What? Like a date? Did Alice finally say yes?”  
  
“Uh… yeah.” He smiled weakly. God, he was an awful liar.  
  
“You know, you’re an awful liar,” the other doctor commented. “So maybe it’s not Alice. You don’t want to tell me?” he teased. John didn’t respond, and Wilson’s tone changed. “Oh, shit. Sorry, John. It’s none of my business.”  
  
“That’s all right. Have a good time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
*  
  
“Yeah, a date. Right,” John muttered as he packed up to head home. “Like I can leave him alone for a single evening? I wish.”


	19. Chapter 19

“Would you just leave me alone?!”   
  
John ran up the steps and stopped short when he reached the sitting room door. Mycroft Holmes was standing there, staring angrily down at his younger brother.  
  
Who was for some reason stretched out on the floor.  
  
“What’s going on?” John demanded.  
  
“I was hoping to have a conversation with my brother, Doctor Watson, but when I arrived I discovered him like this.” He pointed angrily.  
  
“Uh… okay. Why are you lying on the floor?” John asked.  
  
“Tripped.”  
  
John knelt by him and looked into his eyes. “More like tripping,” he growled.  
  
“Are you saying that my brother is ‘high?’?”  
  
“Oh, yeah.” He took the idiot’s pulse. “Probably not a good time for a conversation.”  
  
“How long has this been going on?”  
  
“What, don’t you know? Haven’t checked the cameras lately?”  
  
“I’ve been unusually busy, but I don’t know why someone didn’t alert me.”  
  
“Well, consider yourself alerted. Sherlock, did you hurt yourself when you fell?”  
  
“Mmm. Don’t know.”  
  
“He doesn’t know if he hurt himself?” Mycroft looked even more horrified.  
  
“I think this would be a good time to leave,” John grunted. “Come on. Up you get.” He tugged Sherlock into a sitting position.  
  
“Are you talking about me?” he asked fuzzily.  
  
“Yes, we are. Let’s get you on the sofa, yeah?”   
  
“Ow!”  
  
“What? What hurts? Your wrist?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“All right. Onto the sofa and I’ll take a look. Mycroft, please get the hell out.”  
  
John didn’t even look up when the older Holmes brother stormed out of the flat.  
  



	20. Chapter 20

“No, I’m sorry. He’s not available. He’s not taking clients right now.”  
  
“Who’s that?” He tried walking through the kitchen but he had to lean against the table.  
  
“Oh, Mr Holmes! Can you help me? My best three-quarter has gone missing.”  
  
“Three-quarters of what? John, what’s he talking about?”  
  
“Rugby.”  
  
“Oh. Already bored. Get out.”  
  
“But… he’s a student. And he’s gone missing. I’m horribly worried about him. Can’t you just—”  
  
Sherlock nearly fell face first onto the carpet.  
  
“No, he can’t just. Not right now. He’s ill. You’ll have to go.”  
  
*  
  
John Watson collapsed into his chair, clutching the Union Jack pillow that he had adopted as “his” the very first time he was there. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and held his breath.  
  
He wanted to listen. He didn’t want to listen. He wanted to listen but he didn’t want to hear.  
  
Cursing. Thrashing. Shouting and the sound of heavy objects hitting the door.  
  
God, had he really done that? Had he really installed a bolt so he could lock Sherlock in the bedroom?  
  
What the hell had their lives become?


	21. Chapter 21

Dear Sherlock,  
  
It breaks my heart to have to write this letter, but I am desperately unhappy. I know that your reaction to this is going to be anger and denial, but I have to write it anyway. I am asking you as an intelligent and honourable man to read the entire letter.  
  
I cannot take your behaviour any more. And by your behaviour, I mean your drug use, your self-abuse—not eating, not sleeping—your cutting, and your frankly inexcusable rudeness and arrogance.  
  
You have become one of those people that you complain about. You are rude—more rude than usual, which I didn’t even think was possible. You’re argumentative and stubborn. When you’re high, you become stupid, something I never thought I’d say. But you get so bad I can’t even understand you at times. You’ve started repeating yourself, something I know that you detest. You become clumsy. I hate seeing you—graceful, elegant you—dropping things and falling. You’ve become a danger to yourself and others. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to turn off the Mellon burner after an experiment because you’re too high to notice.   
  
You don’t shower or even change your clothing for days. I never thought I’d miss those ridiculous suits and your obsession with showering. You smoke like a chimney. You let experiments, mail—everything—pile up until the flat looks like a tip and smells worse.  
  
You seem to have forgotten how to earn money, but you certainly haven’t forgotten how to spend it. You let inquiries for your service go unanswered while you go out to find the next hit; the next high. These are all behaviours that you have specifically pointed out in others with great distain. And now you seem to have mastered them all.  
  
I can’t take the constant trips to your dealers (and yes I do know there’s more than one—I’m not an idiot). My stomach knots up whenever I hear you going down the stairs. Even the sound of the street door opening fills me with dread and sorrow.  
  
I feel uncomfortable going to work or even to Tesco because I don’t like leaving you alone. Lately, I have found that no matter how early I get home, it’s too late; you’re already flying or crashing or ranting. I watch you like a three-year-old around a swimming pool until you finally fall asleep because I can’t trust you to not trip and knock yourself out.  
  
I know that you dread social events and avoid them at all costs. Well, now I do, too. I don’t want to go out with you or have anyone at the flat because I never know when you’ll do something moronic. Not if, but when. You embarrass yourself and piss off everyone around you.  
  
I can’t take the lying. You lie about how much you’ve done; what you’ve done. Where you’re going.  
  
I hate the excuses. You don’t eat when you’re angry or sad. You get high when you’re bored. In fact, it seems like there is never a time or reason for you not to behave like that. The drugs have taken over your life and by association, mine as well. I don’t know why you’re so unhappy. Frankly, it doesn’t matter, because no matter what the reason is, you’re not fixing anything. You’re actually making it worse.  
  
You’re not fooling anyone. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and even Mycroft have talked to me about your self-destructive behaviour. They are all very concerned for you while also feeling uncomfortable to be around you. You’ve let them down, been rude to them, and are just plain irritating to be with.  
  
I can’t imagine what you are doing to your body. I don’t have to imagine it, actually. I am a doctor and despite your protests, I am a good one. You’re thinner than ever; not sleeping is burning off whatever calories you manage to take in. You are a master chemist. I don’t have to remind you that a lower body weight means that whatever you’re injecting is hitting you even harder than it used to.  
  
And the worst is this: You are slipping mentally. You are simply not as sharp or quick as you used to be, even when you are sober. Actually, I’m not sure that you are ever completely sober any more.  
  
I feel hollow. I am an empty shell that goes to work, does the housework, pays the bills, and tries to navigate through situations not of my creation. I am embarrassed, frustrated, and exhausted by your behaviour. I feel more like a babysitter than a mate, a colleague, a friend. I still find great joy in being with you when you are sober, but it has become so rare it’s almost like a dream.  
  
You need to make some changes. I know that at this point stopping completely is highly unlikely, but you must cut back a great deal and do it immediately.   
  
I don’t have a lot of options. I’m not making enough money to move out on my own. I am too embarrassed to move in with my sister. But living with you is, at the moment, absolutely horrible. I have to leave.  
  
The most awful thing is that if you are true to form you will have either stopped reading this after the first two paragraphs or you will now react with anger and denial and use that as an excuse for yet another rude comment; another cigarette; another hit. But I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I can’t just nag you. I have to at least speak (write) my mind so when I leave you will know why.  
  
I admire you and look up to you. I miss “dashing about” with you. I miss laughing with you. I miss YOU, Sherlock. Come back to me or I will leave, and where I go, you cannot follow.  
  
I love you, you great git.   
  
Your friend,   
  
John  
  



	22. Chapter 22

John folded another shirt and put it in the suitcase, running over its contents mentally. Yes, all right. He had enough clothing for a week. He closed the case and slid the charger for his mobile into an outside pocket. His laptop and medical kit were in the sitting room. That would be all he really needed.  
  
Oh, toiletries. He had a few things already in his bag, but there were some things he wanted to grab from the bathroom. He picked up the case and headed down the stairs. Dropping it in the hall, he went around the corner.  
  
Sherlock dropped the pipette he was holding.  
  
John ignored it and him and kept walking.  
  
The beaker—the beaker was thrown. Shattered. Glass and whatever was in it everywhere.  
  
John didn’t even flinch. He retrieved his toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb. Walked back through the kitchen, his shoes crunching on the glass. Sherlock was leaning against the counter, his head down; arms wrapped tightly around himself.  
  
John picked up his laptop, found the charging cord for it, and popped those and the toiletries into the suitcase. Put on his coat. Picked up his medical kit from where it was stashed, next to his chair. Glanced into the kitchen. Sherlock hadn’t moved. John noted that his feet were bare. He would probably cut himself walking on the broken glass.  
  
Out into the hall. Added his case to his burden. Down the stairs. Out the door.


	23. Chapter 23

> Come back home. I know you’re at Stamford’s. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Mrs Hudson made some kind of soup. SH
> 
> *
> 
> It’s dreadful. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Come home and have your share. SH
> 
> *
> 
> I’m not eating it all by myself. SH
> 
> *
> 
> You’re playing cards. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Don’t bet too much. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Mike has a surprisingly excellent poker face. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Where did you put the sugar tongs? SH
> 
> *
> 
> Do we have sugar tongs? SH
> 
> *
> 
> Why don’t we have sugar tongs? SH
> 
> *
> 
> Never mind. Mrs Hudson has some. SH
> 
> *
> 
> She’s out but she won’t mind if I borrow them. SH
> 
> *
> 
> I’ll return them before she even notices. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Where’s the fire extinguisher? SH
> 
> *
> 
> Never mind. SH
> 
> *
> 
> I fixed the loose cupboard door. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Where’s the remote? SH
> 
> *
> 
> Do we have batteries? SH
> 
> *
> 
> We need more packaging tape. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Have you lost much money yet? SH
> 
> *
> 
> Come back home. It’s late. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Come back home. I’m sorry. SH
> 
> *
> 
> Come back home. Please. SH

*

Idiot. Idiot. IDIOT.

Every time he snarled the word

Why did you say that?

Why did you do that?

What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?

You know that you’re hurting them.

You know that you’re hurting him.

You know that you’re hurting yourself.

You know that you’re hurting.

Idiot. IDIOT.

Every time he snarled the word

He cut

*

> come hoem it hurtssh


	24. Chapter 24

The fourth time John’s text alert went off, he rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he apologized to Mike.  
  
“Are you going to reply to him?” Mike dealt a new hand.  
  
“No. I left because nothing I do or say is helping.” John picked up his cards and attempted to not reveal his hand via his sometimes-too-expressive face.  
  
Mike picked up his hand. He might as well have been picking up his toothbrush for all John could detect.  
  
By the eighth text, he was fumbling for the settings. “There,” he declared triumphantly. He put his mobile firmly face-down on the table. “Got it muted. Let him text all he wants.”  
  
“I’m up three pounds,” Mike eventually commented. “Want to give it up for the night?”  
  
“I think I can handle it. Deal.”  
  
Mike picked up John’s mobile and scrolled through the new texts. His eyebrows went up at one of them.  
  
“Has he set fire to anything yet?” John inquired drily.  
  
“Ah… yes, but it seems to be all right.” Mike shook his head and put the phone back down.  
  
*  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to reply?” he asked a few hands later, checking the messages again.  
  
“Positive.”  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
“No. Give me two.”  
  
*  
  
It was after midnight when John, fairly uncomfortable on the sofa in Mike’s sitting room, scrolled through all of Sherlock’s texts. “God, Sherlock,” he moaned as he read the last few. “I’d love to come home, but you know I can’t.”  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
John jumped a mile as the soft voice of Mike’s wife drifted through the darkness. Having been briefed by Mike before John arrived, she and the baby had stayed in the bedroom most of the evening. “I don’t mind, honestly,” she had insisted. “I’m just going watch telly and feed my bottomless-pit-boy.” She had come out a few times for various things, and one last time to say good night to them both. She had glanced at the discarded mobile but said nothing as she brushed a stray lock of hair off her husband’s forehead and kissed him.  
  
“Oh, Melody! Sorry. Yeah. I’m all right.”  
  
“You’re a terrible liar,” she smiled gently. “Would you like a glass of milk? I’m just going to get some for myself.”  
  
“That would be nice,” John admitted.  
  
She returned from the kitchen with two full glasses and handed one to John before dropping into one of the side chairs. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked easily.  
  
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”  
  
“Oh, John! I’m not asking for a dissertation or a solution to world hunger.”  
  
“Then what do you want to hear?” He couldn’t keep the bitter tone out of his voice, and immediately regretting snapping at her.  
  
“I want to hear how you’re feeling. What’s going on in your head?”  
  
“Are you sure about that?” he snarled.  
  
“Yes, I am quite sure about that,” she said firmly. “I might actually even be able to help.”  
  
“No, I didn’t mean—”  
  
“It’s all right. Mike’s told me some of what you’ve been going through. I know Sherlock is very high-strung, but Mike says that lately he’s been even worse, if that’s possible.”  
  
“I didn’t think it was. Apparently I was wrong.” John’s voice broke a bit.  
  
“So tell me about what’s been happening. And drink your milk. It’ll help—I promise.”  
  
So John explained to Melody what had been happening, and he told her how he was feeling about it, and he drank his milk, and eventually his exhaustion caught up with him and she tugged at the empty glass in his hand as he closed his eyes and began to drift off.  
  
She saw the light on his mobile go on, but she didn’t read the last text from the madman he was so clearly in love with.   
  



	25. Chapter 25

“Oh, John. Please come home. He’s in a dreadful state.” Mrs Hudson’s voice quivered.  
  
“I can’t. Not right now. I can’t be there with him.” John shook his head, his mobile pressed to his ear.  
  
“I don’t know what to do. He sleeps all day, or he’s crashing about, and he goes out every night. Comes home at all hours in a dreadful state. I went upstairs last night after he left. It’s an absolute disaster up there. Rubbish everywhere—but no food. Broken glass, but it’s not dishes.”  
  
“You aren’t trying to clean it up, are you?” the doctor inquired anxiously.  
  
“No, I’m not touching a thing. He hasn’t left anything burning, at least.”  
  
“Good. Don’t touch anything. God knows what he’s messing with.”  
  
“John, when are you coming back? He needs you.”  
  
“No. I’m sorry,” John replied firmly. “I know he’s a mess, but that’s exactly why I left. He needs to not have me cleaning up his mistakes for a bit or he’s never going to change.”  
  
“You want him to bottom out? Is that it?” Mrs Hudson’s voice was tight; angry.  
  
“Well, yes. He won’t listen to anybody. He’s got to see for himself how low he’s gotten.”  
  
There was a stony silence.  
  
“I’m sorry. I can’t fix him. No one can fix him. He’s got to do it himself.”  
  
“What makes you think that he can?” she spat out. “Don’t you think that if he wanted to, he would have already?”  
  
“That’s it, though. He hasn’t _wanted_ to yet. He’s still in denial. He’s got to see that there are repercussions for his actions.” John raked his free hand through his hair and down his face. He knew—he _knew_ —that he was right about this, but even knowing it and even with it coming out of his own mouth—it sounded like the biggest piece of shit ever uttered.  
  
“John Watson! Your best friend is tearing himself apart, and you’re making it worse,” she argued.  
  
“I hate myself for this,” he added, belatedly.  
  
“Good.”  
  



	26. Chapter 26

“I’ll go if you think it’ll help.”  
  
John looked into Greg Lestrade’s open, honest, concerned face. He had run out of ideas. Clearly reasoning, shouting, threatening, and even abandoning the man hadn’t gotten through to him. He had no clue what to try next. “You will?”  
  
“’Course I will! God, John, I hate to see him this bad almost as much as you do. I get why you can’t get through to him. But maybe he’ll listen to me.”  
  
“You’ve gotten through to him before,” John agreed. “When I first met him, he was clean because he wanted to keep working with you.”  
  
“True. And I sure as hell can’t use him now. I’ll go over in the morning, all right?”  
  
“It won’t be pretty.”  
  
“No, I didn’t think it would be.”  
  
“No, I mean morning might be the worst time to try. Mrs H says he stays out all night.”  
  
“That’s sort of what I want to do—hit him when he’s feeling crap. He’s much more likely to agree that he can’t continue to maintain his habit while he’s puking. If I wait ‘til it’s too late, he’s just going to be thinking about his next hit.”  
  
John nodded, unable to speak for a few seconds. Something seemed to be lodged in his throat. He swallowed. “Yeah. You’re right. You’ve been through this with him before.”  
  
“Unfortunately, yeah I have.”  
  
They sat in silence for a bit. It had been a week since John had walked out. He was outstaying his welcome at Mike’s. Not that either Mike or Melody had said a word, and in fact Melody had been delighted when he offered to babysit one evening so they could go out to dinner by themselves. But the sofa was horrible and he felt in the way and there was no amount of laundry and washing up he could do to help ease the feeling that what he was doing was wrong.  
  
That it was making things worse.  
  
He had called Greg the morning of the seventh day, on his way into the surgery. The DI had readily agreed—of course John could come stay with him for a bit. They had met up that evening, and Greg had greeted him with an extra key.  
  
At least Lestrade had an extra bedroom (“if you’ll be needing two” floated through his mind), affording him some privacy. He felt less in the way. Greg was at work ‘til all hours and actually seemed to like that John made dinner and did the washing up.  
  
Which is what he had just finished doing. He dried his hands and wandered into the sitting room, glancing at the telly. “Anything good on?” he asked.  
  
“Nah. Just mindless crap.”  
  
The doctor nodded and sat at the small table behind the sofa. He opened his laptop and checked his emails. Then he took a deep breath and checked his blog.  
  
He obviously hadn’t posted anything to it recently, case-wise. There was a smattering of inquiries pertaining to this: _Was he all right? Were he and Sherlock on a confidential case?_  
  
 _Nothing much going on at the moment_ , he responded. Ha, he thought to himself as he hit enter.  
  
He was startled when he got a response almost instantly.  
  
Christ. It was Sherlock. Again. This was the third time he had logged on that Sherlock was apparently online and watching for him.  
  
 _Enjoying your sabbatical, doctor? –Sherlock Holmes_  
  
 _Not really –John Watson_  
  
 _It’s delightfully quiet here. I had wondered what that noise was all that time. Turns out it was you nagging me. –Sherlock Holmes_  
  
“He’s doing it again,” John reported to Greg, who sat up slightly and peered over the back of the sofa.  
  
“Yeah? Tell him to bugger off.”  
  
John didn’t reply. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Hesitated. One keystroke. He shut his eyes. “I can’t,” he admitted.  
  
Greg sighed. “So block him,” he suggested. “He’s doing it on your blog on purpose. You know that.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. He loves an audience.”  
  
“So don’t give him the satisfaction. Block him.”  
  
They had been through this several times already, and each time, it became more and more obvious that John wasn’t going to do that. He had, at least, stopped reading the texts. Every evening the doctor would hand his mobile to Greg and he would scroll through the sometimes thirty texts (talk about unlimited plan, he commented) just to make sure that there wasn’t an actual emergency. Most of them were completely nonsensical. Questions about the kettle and some sort of special screwdriver. Cabbage. A deck of cards. And every evening the texts would stop for a bit; the blog comments would take over. And then, late at night, the texts would begin again, and those would always be—  
  
Those were horrible.  
  
Because those were the ones in which Sherlock would beg:  
  


> I got you new bedding as nice as mine SH
> 
> Nicer than Lestrade’s SH
> 
> Come try it SH
> 
> Please
> 
> I miss you sH
> 
> Im sorrysH
> 
> Please come home sh

Greg would delete them all before handing the phone back.


	27. Chapter 27

Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. Wasn’t it?  
  
So why…  
  
So why…  
  
Why was he…  
  
Why…  
  
Why didn’t John reply?  
  
He checked his phone for the tenth time that hour.  
  
What was wrong with his eyes?  
  



	28. Chapter 28

“Sherlock? You here? Mrs Hudson let me in.” DI Lestrade strode into the flat—  
  
And very nearly walked right back out.  
  
When she had said it was a tip, she was not exaggerating. The place was an absolute mess and it reeked. He took one step in and looked down—there was a newspaper on the floor under his foot. He kicked it away. “Sherlock!” he shouted.  
  
“What do _you_ want?”  
  
Oh, God. If the flat looked bad, Sherlock looked like _absolute hell._ He hadn’t looked that bad since—  
  
He was wearing filthy, baggy track pants and a stained dressing gown over his bare chest. Bare feet. His hair was greasy and tangled and his skin had a greyish cast to it. His cheekbones and clavicle were frighteningly prominent.  
  
He stumbled (literally; nearly knocking the table askew) through the kitchen. “I said, what the fuck do you want?” he demanded. He coughed.  
  
“I came to check on you.” Greg fought to keep his voice even.  
  
“Did my parents send you? Or Mycroft?  
  
“No, you idiot. John sent me and if he hadn’t I would’ve come anyway. God, Sherlock. Sit down before you fall down.” He gestured toward the sitting room chairs, realizing belatedly that John’s chair was stacked with books and papers and notebooks, the skull perched rather jauntily on top.  
  
At just about the height that John’s head would be.  
  
Sherlock snickered nastily as he dropped into his own chair, crinkling whatever papers were on it. He began to dig into the cushions for something, tuning his guest out entirely. Greg leaned against the mantle, having to move a –what the hell was that? He didn’t actually want to know. “Speaking of, has Mycroft been by?” he demanded.  
  
“He’s on some government-business-trip-thingie. Been gone and out of my hair for weeks. The people he hired to spy on me turned out to be horribly incompetent. He should fire them all.”  
  
“And your parents?”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “I speak to my parents _every_ Sunday. I spoke to them just yesterday.”  
  
“Today’s Wednesday.”  
  
Oh, good. That stumped him for a second. He paused in his rummaging, glaring at the intruder. His gaze wandered to just over Greg’s shoulder. “Oh! There it is. Pass me that slipper.”  
  
“What? All right.” Slipper? Is that what that thing was? The DI handed it to the younger man, who immediately dug into it and pulled out two cigarettes.  
  
“Want one?” he offered magnanimously. “No law against smoking in here.”  
  
“One: I don’t smoke anymore and Two: Your landlady is going to kill you. This place already reeks.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.”  
  
That did it. Greg pushed himself away from the mantel and stood directly in front of the slouching man, who was having difficulty lighting his cigarette because his hands were shaking so much. “Sherlock, look at me,” he commanded.  
  
He did so, blearily, coughing again as he finally got the fag lit and took a deep drag. “What?” he demanded when he was able.  
  
“Look. I’m going to make this brief because frankly I don’t want to see you like this any longer than I have to. Here is the message: If you want to see John or even talk to him again, this has all got to stop. No more using. No more smoking. No more starving yourself. No more hurting yourself.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “You can’t be serious,” he declared. He flicked ashes directly onto the hearth.  
  
“Dead serious, and so is John. He’s had it with you. You’re ripping him to shreds, you arsehole.”  
  
“So? He’s already gone. He’s staying with you, I presume? I’ll have the rest of his things shipped.”  
  
Greg wanted to tear his hair out. “Sherlock!” he shouted. “You’ve got to pull yourself together or you’re going to lose the very best thing that has ever happened to you.”  
  
“What does that even mean? ‘Very best thing?’”  
  
“It means that when John moved in, you were clean. You were working. You were a huge pain in the arse to live with, but you were functioning, and it only got better after he came. He had you eating more. Sleeping. Not being quite so rude. You actually started apologizing to people on occasion.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So you might recall in whatever bits of brain you have left that the man nearly died for you. Semtex vest sound familiar?”  
  
“That’s not fair. That wasn’t my fault.” Sherlock took another drag and blew the smoke coolly in his direction.  
  
“Not directly, no… well, yeah, actually, yes it was. But do you know what?”  
  
The dark-haired man stared at him coldly.  
  
“He did all of those things—all of those mad things and tons more that I don’t even want to know about—for _you_ , Sherlock.”  
  
“That’s his mistake.” Ice daggers.  
  
“CHRIST ALMIGHTY!” Lestrade thundered, slamming his hand on the mantle. “Don’t you get it, you PRICK? He _loves_ you.”  
  
And then he held his breath because that was not at all what he had been planning to tell the human wreck in front of him. Nope, not part of the plan _at all._ Because the plan was John’s, and John wasn’t about to say that to Sherlock because John couldn’t even admit it to himself yet… shit, Greg. You’ve fucked this up royally.  
  
Sherlock went still. He went very still. Greg finally pried the lit fag from his fingers before it dropped to the chair. Guiltily, he took a drag before stubbing it out.  
  
“Sherlock? Hey. You okay?” he asked, crouching down in front of him. He brushed the tangled curls from his face.  
  
“What did you mean? That last bit.” His eyes were skittish; he couldn’t look the older man in the face. His voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred-foot-deep hole in the ground. Even resting on his knees, his hands still shook.  
  
“I’m sorry I said that,” Greg admitted. “Can you just forget that last bit?” he asked hopefully.  
  
Sherlock considered this for so long that Greg finally patted him lightly on the cheek. “Hey. Come back to me,” he encouraged. Finally the once-brilliant eyes, dulled and bloodshot now, slowly fixed on his.  
  
“I want him to come home,” he muttered in a voice that sounded a hundred years old. “I’ve texted him and messaged him and I’ve apologized and I’ve followed him to work and when he goes out and he looks so tired and I wanted to send him his new bedding because he likes mine and I got him blue because I thought he’d like that and then maybe he’d sleep better and he wouldn’t look so _tired._ Don’t you think he should have his new bedding?”  
  
Greg Lestrade was speechless, completely unaware that his mouth was hanging open.  
  
“Yes. You can take his new bedding to him! And some more jumpers. It’s getting colder. He doesn’t like it when it’s cold. It bothers his shoulder. Is your flat warm enough for him?”  
  
“Sherlock…” Greg had to shut his mouth and swallow before he said that, and he found it painful.  
  
“I don’t know about the books. His books. I can’t remember which are his books and which are mine. Maybe he put his name in his. That seems like something that John would do.” He looked eagerly at the older man, seeking affirmation.  
  
“Yeah. It does.”  
  
“Yes, it does,” he repeated. “Wait. I’m forgetting something. There’s always something. Gah. I can’t think! Why can’t I think? I need something to help me think. Do you have any—no, you wouldn’t. Never mind. I’ve got plenty. Don’t I? I did. I got some just yesterday. Sunday.”  
  
“It’s Wednesday,” Greg supplied sadly.  
  
“Is it? Well then it’s all gone. I’ll have to… erm… I’ll have to get dressed and go out. Yes. And…” He attempted to stand up, but the taller man had to grab him and gently ease him back into his chair. “That’s not right, either, is it?” he asked. “That’s not the right thing to do. I keep not knowing what to do. The right thing to do. I don’t know what’s right and John always get angry with me and tells me…“ His voice broke. “He tells me… he keeps me right. John Watson keeps me right and without him I don’t know what to do--“  
  
His anguish brought tears to Greg’s eyes as he buried his face in his hands and rocked in his chair, his legs drawn up tightly to his chest. The DI gently put his hands on the thin shoulders and stilled him. He finally looked up—and his eyes, filled with tears—bored into him like no ice-cold stare ever had.  
  
“What do I need to do to get him to come home?”  
  
  
  



	29. Chapter 29

“Come on, Greg,” John seethed, pacing through the man’s sitting room. “Let me know how it’s going.” His stomach was churning and his mouth was dry. He stared hopefully at the mobile in his hand. “You said you’d phone.” And then another thought seized him. “Oh, God. What if it’s too late? What if he’s OD’d or starved to death?” He was finding it hard to breathe. He stopped pacing.  
  
“Get a hold of yourself, Captain Watson. If he’d found something like that, he would have phoned already. He’s probably just arguing with the git. Yes. I’m sure that’s what it is. A long, horrible conversation. Sherlock never uses one word when three will do.”  
  
That made him feel a bit better. He took a deep breath and looked around himself.  
  
Should he make lunch?  
  
He started pacing again.  
  
*  
  
It had taken about half an hour, but Greg had finally gotten Sherlock calmed down enough to talk to him properly. Because now, yes, Sherlock was ready for a proper talk. He was trembling and confused and sweating and coughing, and Greg didn’t want to get too close because it was obvious that no showers, baths, or laundering had happened any time recently, but he was ready.  
  
And—miracle of miracles--he was actually making sense.  
  
“He doesn’t expect you to go cold turkey on everything. Your system couldn’t take that.”  
  
“So what does he expect?” He attempted to light another cigarette, but he couldn’t even hold the lighter. It fell to the floor.  
  
Greg rolled his eyes and lit the cigarette for him. This was no time to be splitting hairs over the smaller issues. “It’s fairly simple, Sherlock. He expects you to _try._ ”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Just what I said. Give me that—” He grabbed the cigarette before it landed on the filthy dressing gown. “He expects you to try to get yourself under control. He’s perfectly willing to help—he wants to help—we all want to help. You don’t have to do it alone. But you’ve got to be willing, and you’ve got to try.”  
  
“Such as….?” He tried to grab his cigarette back, but Lestrade held it easily out of his reach.  
  
“Such as… well, obviously the drugs have got to go.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. Yes, that was obvious. John had been particularly upset about the coke, he seemed to recall.  
  
“And he _means_ that. _That’s_ gotta be cold turkey and if it means therapy or rehab or him sitting on you, that’s what’s going to happen.”  
  
“What else? Can I have that, please?”  
  
“Oh, all right. Be careful. What else…? Oh. Eating. That might not be as hard as you think. Without the blow, your appetite will improve. Same if you cut back on the nicotine. He doesn’t expect three full meals a day at first, but he expects you to at least try.”  
  
“But what about when I’m on a case? I can’t eat then.”  
  
“You’ll have to negotiate that. Same goes for sleeping. Clean up; clean out your system and maybe some sort of normal sleep patterns will resurface.”  
  
“Except when I’m on a case.”   
  
“Talk to him.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, considering. He was hoping that Lestrade wouldn’t bring up—  
  
“As for the cutting,” (Damn. He brought it up.) “John thinks that maybe some medication might help.”  
  
“Medication?”  
  
“Yeah. He’s a doctor, remember? Listen, he can tell you about that, all right? I think you’ve got more than enough to start on.”  
  
“And if I try to do all that, he’ll come home?”  
  
“Yes. That’s what he said.”  
  
“When?”  
  
Oh. They hadn’t discussed that. They hadn’t because neither of them had really thought their plan would work. Greg thought about it. “I’ve got an idea,” he offered. He pulled out his mobile, opened up a screen, and handed it to Sherlock, making sure it was firmly in his hand before letting go. “Go on,” he mouthed.  
  
The doctor was so jittery by that point that he had barely been able to accept the call. His heart was in his throat when he saw “DI Lestrade” on the caller ID. Oh, please let it be good news. “Greg? How is he?” he demanded eagerly.  
  
And then he heard a voice. He heard THE voice. The voice that he had been aching for. The voice that would hopefully mean that things were eventually going to be all right.  
  
“John?”  
  
He heard Sherlock.  
  



	30. Chapter 30

“But I want you home _now_!” Sherlock fussed, stamping his foot. He was going absolutely mad with withdrawals and cravings and his attempt at distracting himself by cleaning up the flat wasn’t going quite as well as he had hoped.  
  
“Nope. That was not the deal,” John reminded him firmly. “You’ve got to get through one full week without using. No cheating. Greg and Mycroft both have you under surveillance. If you can’t manage it, you’re going into rehab. I don’t like that you’re alone for this, but honestly I can’t be with you yet, and no one else is willing.”  
  
“I…” he tried desperately to parse his sentence. Without the coke, his brain had been running full speed with no steering or brakes. He’d start one thing, then jump to another. He was shaking so badly he kept dropping things. He was nauseated most of the time and his head—if he could have removed it and replaced it with the skull he would have done so without delay.  
  
“You?” John encouraged.  
  
“I… did laundry today.” Yes. He had. That he had actually accomplished. Well, Mrs Hudson had had to help—he kept losing track of what he was doing--but she didn’t do it for him. She had promised John that she wouldn’t. Food—yes, feeding him was encouraged—but none of the cleaning up.  
  
“Did you? Good job.”  
  
“Mrs Hudson had to help… had to help me.”  
  
“That’s all right. She’s allowed to help as long as she’s not actually doing the work.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“What else did you do?”  
  
“I… erm…” What was it? It was so hard to concentrate. He looked around himself. “Oh! I found the extra charger cord for your phone. And that mouse that got away.”  
  
“Good—wait. What mouse? From last month? Was it…”  
  
“Crispy? A bit.”  
  
John sighed and chuckled. Crispy mouse parts were fine. “So what are you going to do this evening?”  
  
“Mmm…” He struggled to remember what John had asked him to do during their last conversation. “Shower? Oh! Tea. Put at least ten books back on the shelves.”  
  
“Excellent. If you keep this up, maybe we can video chat tomorrow evening, yeah? Instead of just talking?”  
  
“I’d like that.” He looked around the flat, which was still a mess. Where could he sit that the webcam didn’t pick up any of the clutter? Well, he had a whole day to think about it, and maybe tomorrow would be better.  
  
*  
  
“John? I’m so sorry to phone so late.”  
  
“Mrs Hudson? What’s wrong?” John was instantly alert, already swinging his legs out of the bed in Greg’s second bedroom and flicking on the light.  
  
“He’s… he’s in a bad way tonight. He barely had anything for tea and he went out before I could stop him and when he got back...”  
  
“What else?”  
  
“Those books. The books. He…”  
  
“What did he do?” John asked firmly.  
  
“He threw some of the books at me. He didn’t hit me; I wasn’t even all the way in the door, but I’m downstairs now and I can hear him just crashing about.”  
  
“Let him.”  
  
“No! John!”  
  
“I know it sounds cruel, but just leave him alone. Let me know in the morning how he’s doing.”  
  
“Oh, John. Can’t you please just come home? He needs you.”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  



	31. Chapter 31

“You said we would video chat tonight!” he bellowed. He was absolutely livid. John had rescinded his offer.  
  
“No. I agreed to video _if you kept up what you were doing._ Do you think that your behaviour in the past twenty-four hours even _remotely_ resembles anything that deserves to be rewarded?”  
  
“I’m trying.”  
  
“You were trying. Then you fucked up. It’s going to happen.”  
  
“What…” Sherlock’s voice broke and he tried again. “What should I do now?”  
  
“You can get back to cleaning up the flat for a bit, have something to eat, shower, and go to bed.”  
  
“What should I clean up next?”  
  
John sighed. He knew that Sherlock was having a horrible time focusing and that he needed to give him tasks in extremely small bits that he could accomplish before getting distracted. “Did you pick up the books that you threw at Mrs Hudson yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then do that—pick them up and put them on a shelf—and throw away three things from the fridge.”  
  
It seemed like a ludicrously short list, but the way Sherlock wandered off on tangents, it would be a miracle if he was to get just those things done in the next hour—or two. Or all evening. On the plus side, he often ended up being distracted by other cleaning, so something was being accomplished, but that wasn’t what John was aiming for.  
  
“Then what should I have to eat?”  
  
“Why not make yourself some eggs and toast? Can you manage that?”  
  
“Yes.” The consulting lunatic sounded so sad it nearly broke John’s heart. He hadn’t wanted to take back the offer of the video chat. He wanted to see Sherlock just as much as Sherlock wanted to see him, but he had to stick to his guns.  
  
“All right. Go do those things and go to bed and I’ll phone tomorrow.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“When I get a chance. I’m working.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
*  
  
“How are you feeling?”  
  
“Horrid.”  
  
“Have you been eating? Drinking?”  
  
“I had… oh! Cheddar and tomato sandwich. Mrs Hudson made it for me.”  
  
“Excellent. Good job. How’s the cleaning going?”  
  
“I found six pencils in my seat cushions.”  
  
John chuckled. “Not very comfortable to sit on,” he pointed out.  
  
“No. When are you coming home?”  
  
“A week. You have to get through a whole week,” John reminded him.  
  
“It’s been almost that. Hasn’t it?” He sounded eager.  
  
“We had to restart the count—remember? It’s been three days this time.”  
  
He whimpered.  
  
*  
  
“I need some. God, please, John. I feel like my head is going to burst.” The anguish in his voice ripped through John more painfully than the bullet that had shattered his shoulder.  
  
“You know that I can’t do that.”  
  
“I hate you!”  
  
The call ended abruptly.  
  
*  
  
“Did you apologize to Mrs Hudson?”  
  
…  
  
“I said, did—“  
  
“I heard you.”  
  
“So did you?”  
  
“I ordered her a new kettle.”  
  
“Well, that’s very nice, but I except to hear about an actual apology as well. All right?”  
  
*  
  
“It’s good to see you,” John offered. He had finally consented to a video chat.  
  
“You too,” Sherlock mumbled.  
  
“What’s the matter? I thought you were looking forward to this. I know I was.” The doctor peered closely at the monitor.  
  
“Don’t feel well,” he admitted.  
  
“Have you been eating?”  
  
“I was sick.” He looked and sounded exhausted.  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”  
  
“Mrs Hudson made me dinner.” He was clearly miserable.  
  
“Oh. Items from the ‘no’ list, I take it?”   
  
His mate nodded sadly. “Pork roast. Carrots and peas. Some other…” he shuddered.  
  
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t like those things. You tried to eat it anyway, to be polite?”  
  
“Yes. I just… I couldn’t get through it. I’m sorry. I tried. I really did.”  
  
“No, that’s fine. You tried, and that’s what matters.”  
  
Sherlock smiled shyly at him.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, sit down! You’re making me dizzy.”  
  
The dressing gown flitted past the webcam again; all John could see was a blur as his mad man walked rapidly back and forth. He obviously had his laptop on the coffee table, based on the angle of the image.  
  
“I… God. I need some. Please.”  
  
“You can get through this,” he reminded him. “Just two more days and then I’ll come home and we’ll get you something to help. All right?”  
  
“Why can’t I have it now?” he demanded, not pausing in his striding.  
  
“Because I need to know that you’re serious about quitting.”  
  
Sherlock suddenly sank onto the floor and John got a good look at his face.  
  
“What will help?” he demanded.  
  
“Sometimes a mild sedative helps with withdrawals and cravings. But I don’t want it to become a crutch. Two more days. You can do this. You’re doing really well.”  
  
“I miss you.”  
  
“I miss you too. And Greg snores so loudly I can hear it right through the wall.”  
  
Sherlock managed a smile.  
  
*  
  
“What are you up to today?”  
  
“Experimenting with lemon juice.”  
  
“Okay. Sounds relatively harmless.”  
  
“I’m not using any open flames.”  
  
“Excellent. How are you feeling?”  
  
“Better than yesterday.” He looked much better, too—John could see that he had even gotten dressed.  
  
“Did you go out?”  
  
He nodded. “Mrs Hudson and I went out for tea.”  
  
“Excellent. One more day,” John reminded him.  
  
“Does that mean you’ll come home tomorrow evening?”  
  
“Yes. Just get through one more day. Can you do that?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
John beamed.  
  
*  
  
“You’re not going to make it to this evening,” Greg grinned.  
  
“Nope. I’m going to go now—surprise him. Am I that obvious?”  
  
“You have no idea.”  
  
John looked at the DI quizzically, then went back to packing his bag.  
  



	32. Chapter 32

Still breathing. Oh, thank God. He was still breathing. He yanked the plug up and the tub began to drain. “Come on, Sherlock. I’ve got to get you out.” John didn’t realize until the next day what a strain he put on his back and arms hauling the soaking wet, dead weight of Sherlock out of the ancient, deep tub. It didn’t matter.  
  
They tumbled to the tile floor in a heap.  
  
“Come back to me. Did you take something? What did you take?”  
  
He pulled himself out from under the taller man, who remained limp and unresponsive. The doctor watched, then listened with one hand laid delicately on the thin chest. The breaths were shallow, but regular.   
  
He cradled the wet head in his lap and raised the lid of one eye. The eye flicked to Sherlock’s right in twitchy little jerks. Ah.  
  
“Sherlock!” He patted one cheek. “Come on. I need you to wake up for me now. I know you’re tired but I need to hear one word from you. Just one word.”  
  
Sherlock’s head twitched.  
  
“That’s it. Come on. Just give me one word and I’ll let you sleep, all right?” He kept patting the cheek, rather firmly at this point.  
  
The head twitched again. This time it was obvious that it was trying to get away from John’s hand.  
  
“Sherlock. Listen to me. I really need you to talk to me, or I’m calling 999 and Mycroft and Lestrade and your parents and the _Daily Express_ and—“  
  
“Stuh…”  
  
John paused. He watched as one still-wet, white hand attempted to do… something. No idea what, but it was a deliberate attempt at movement.  
  
“Yeah? And the _Mirror_ —“  
  
“STuhp.”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Sssstohp.”  
  
“Stop what?”  
  
“Sssstop… faaaz. Ssstop httng my faaaze.”  
  
“Stop hitting your face?”  
  
“Mmm. Yeh.”  
  
“Good job. Now, can you tell me who I am?”  
  
“Jawn…”  
  
“Excellent. How about I get us dried off a bit?”  
  
“Cohhld.”  
  
“I know you’re cold. Let me up,” John instructed as he extracted himself, gently laying Sherlock’s head on the bath mat. He grabbed a few towels and laid them over the supine figure. “I’m going to get you some dry clothing. I’ll be right back.”  
  
John stumbled against the hallway wall, his legs suddenly jelly beneath him. He had been so close. He had very nearly lost him. This had been far, far too close.  
  
*  
  
“He synthesized his own fucking Quinalbarbitone.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It’s a barbiturate. A sedative. It can make withdrawal easier.”  
  
“Is he all right?”  
  
“He is now. He didn’t really overdose, but he was in the bath. I got to him just as his head was about to go…” John’s voice finally broke.  
  
Greg waited.  
  
“His head was going to go…”  
  
Greg waited.  
  
“I nearly lost him. Oh, God, I nearly lost him. What if I hadn’t come back? What if I had stopped to talk to Mrs Hudson or buy a paper or… anything?”  
  
“But you didn’t, and you found him in time, and he’s going to be all right,” Greg replied reassuringly—a reassurance he needed just as much as John did. “Do you want me to come over?”  
  
“Uh… no. Not right now. He’s asleep—I mean, normally—and he’ll just sleep it off. I just want to keep an eye on him.”  
  
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know. You have to take care of yourself, too.” _And I want to see both of your faces._  
  
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning or whenever you want. Just ring me first. I just… we just need tonight to ourselves, okay?” John sounded utterly exhausted.  
  
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll ring you in the morning. Try to get some sleep yourself, yeah?”  
  
“Sure. Good night.”  
  
Greg Lestrade ended the call with difficulty. His own hands were shaking too much.  
  



	33. Chapter 33

The doctor had gotten him dried and into bed to let him sleep the sedative off, at first hovering over him. Making sure that he was breathing. Finally convinced that he would be all right for a bit, he went reluctantly into the kitchen and started to disassemble the lab equipment. Mrs Hudson had been up—fortunately after he had gotten the pale man into bed—and he gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her that he was glad to be home and that everything was going to be all right.  
  
He had put together some dinner for himself—somewhat shocked to discover that there was some food in the fridge, it was edible, and it was not mixed with any body parts. So he really had been making an effort.  
  
Oh, Sherlock. Please be all right.  
  
He worked off his anxiety by cleaning. Despite his flatmate’s best intentions, the place was mostly a disaster. He noted with a sad smile that all the books were shelved and that there were six pencils neatly lined up on the mantel.  
  
Finally, he hit a wall. He took a long shower, trying not to think about what had happened in the bathroom, and pulled on pyjamas. He dimmed the lights, pulled down the duvet, and curled up behind Sherlock, his arm thrown protectively across his waist.  
  
*  
  
Was it waking up or was it surfacing? Sherlock felt like he had been holding his breath for a long, long time while submerged in dark, murky, cold water. There were things in that water—things that threatened to grab his ankles and pull him further down. Part of him wanted that to happen.  
  
He fought his way to the surface instead.  
  
Naked. He was in his bed and naked. How had that happened? He must have… what had he been doing? Wait. It was dark. It was dark? Wasn’t… didn’t…  
  
And then he noticed it. The arm. Oh, that familiar, lovely, strong arm and the steady hand, warm and comforting on his bare skin. Oh, God. John was back. Just like he promised.  
  
He rolled over cautiously—feeling a bit odd for some reason—like even after he stopped moving he was still rolling—but he ignored it. Because there he was. He was dressed in his blue pyjamas, and he was asleep, and his nose was making a funny little wheezy sound, and he was the best thing Sherlock had ever seen in his life. His John was back.  
  
He sat up carefully, gently dislodging the hand. Once again, after he stopped moving it felt as if he was still going up—like riding an invisible lift. John had left one lamp on, and as the duvet fell away, in its dim light he could see his own body. He examined it thoughtfully, as if he were examining a corpse. Gathering information. Deducing it.  
  
His hands—he could tell that they were a violinist’s hands, but what was that? Yellowed fingers. Oh. A smoker. And what was that odd stain? Chemist. An infected cut. Idiot. Shaking. He wasn’t sure what that was about.  
  
Arms—thin but surprisingly strong. Scarred. Intravenous drug user.  
  
Chest and belly—like the rest of him, the skin was pale; stomach almost concave. Not a big eater. No. He ran his fingers lightly along his collarbone and down his ribs.  
  
He pushed the duvet down further, being careful not to pull it off John.  
  
Legs. Oh. Scars and scars and scars. Half-healed wounds. Open wounds. A cutter. Patterns of five. An OCD self-harming…  
  
Both knees and shins were covered in bruises—many collisions with furniture. Off balance. Unsteady.  
  
He ran his eyes back up his legs again.  
  
What was that? He touched it, tentatively. Oh, right. He wondered if the impotence was permanent. He hoped not; long-term cocaine abuse could cause permanent nerve damage, but not necessarily.  
  
He leaned over and kissed John gently on the lips.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?” The word came out of John’s mouth before he was even aware that he had woken up. He reached out and felt the warm body. Felt the chest moving. Oh, thank God. He opened his eyes and sat up.  
  
Sherlock was sound asleep, the duvet pushed down, revealing his lean body. John’s eyes swept over it, tallying the new track marks; new bruises and scars. He ran his hand over the too-prominent ribs. Stupid, stupid man.  
  
He tugged the duvet up and smoothed it over him.  
  
Why had he left him alone?  
  
He would never do that again.  
  
John leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips.


	34. Chapter 34

“No, that is not straightening up! That’s shoving all the papers and crap into already overflowing drawers. You’ll never be able to find anything.” John crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
“I have a system,” Sherlock offered.  
  
“You do not,” John countered. “Start sorting.”  
  
Sherlock huffed in annoyance but retrieved the stack of papers he had just shoved into an already-overflowing drawer and began to sort them. He didn’t want to admit it, but in doing so he discovered that 1) Ninety percent of the papers could be tossed out and 2) he found some notes he’d misplaced weeks prior.  
  
*  
  
“Why don’t you go take a nap?” the doctor suggested gently. “You’re practically falling asleep already.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. He was exhausted; he knew that. His eyes felt like dirty tennis balls and his head seemed much heavier than usual. So why couldn’t he just do what his friend had said? Why couldn’t he just get up, walk down the hall to his bedroom, and stretch out for a while?  
  
“Sherlock.” John’s voice was low. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“I don’t need a nap. I’m not a child,” he snapped.  
  
“Oh, shit, Sherlock. You’ve been doing really well today. Let’s not start again now, okay?”  
  
Sherlock glanced in the direction of his bedroom. He had no idea how much his face was revealing.  
  
“You don’t want to lie down by yourself—is that it?”  
  
How did John do that? He nodded in embarrassment.  
  
John smiled. “Tell you what. I’m beat, too. How about we both have a nice lie-down, and then we can get a Chinese for dinner. All right?”  
  
*  
  
“So now the baby looks like a slightly older Winston Churchill?” Sherlock scowled in confusion at the photos that Mike had emailed to John.  
  
“He’s smiling in that one.”  
  
“Oh, good.”  
  
“Brat.”  
  
*  
  
“It’s all right. Calm down. I know the cravings are really, really strong. Do you want to try taking something to help?”   
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“It’s all right if you do. I’m right here. I’ll monitor you. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock looked closely at the photo Lestrade had sent him. “Someone bent the tiara, popped the sapphire out, then straightened it. Who’s the strongest member of the household?”  
  
*  
  
“No, I’m warm enough. Are you cold? I can get the extra blanket.”  
  
*  
  
“You ate the entire sandwich _and_ an apple? That’s fantastic! Tell you what: on my way home I’ll pick up those biscuits you like, all right?”  
  
*  
  
“No, I don’t know why lemon juice stings more than lime juice when poured onto a cut. No, I don’t wish to feel the difference myself. Lunatic.”  
  
*  
  
“It was just a nightmare. You’re all right.”  
  
“But… I was falling…”  
  
“Shhh. That happens sometimes. Go back to sleep. I won’t let you fall.”  
  



	35. Chapter 35

“What’s up?” John asked avidly. He was thrilled that Sherlock had finally seemed to turn a corner. He had turned down a too-simple case (or, more precisely, had solved it from the emailed enquiry), but it had gotten him to thinking something about acids, and that had led to a new experiment. It had been ages. John wanted to dance.  
  
Instead, he focused on assisting the master chemist. Despite his reputation for setting things on fire, blowing things up, and being in general a walking haz mat site, Sherlock really did know what he was doing. At that moment he was determining if differing pH levels in stomach acid would affect the rate at which poison from the oleander plant would be absorbed.  
  
The entire flat positively reeked, but John had opened all the windows with a grin.  
  
“There’s a box somewhere with some papers and books in it. I need the blue notebook out of it.”  
  
“Sure. I’ll go look.”  
  
*  
  
“An award for fencing? Really?” John looked over his shoulder at his flatmate in wonder. He was seated on the floor, the box of Sherlock’s things open in front of him. Once he had located the box, he had been diligently searching for the blue notebook, but the box had been an unholy jumble of things from Sherlock’s uni days and even earlier in his schooling, and he had gotten distracted.  
  
“Mmm? Oh, yes. What?” Sherlock glared at John’s incredulous look.  
  
“Well, it just seems a bit… disciplined for you,” John offered carefully.  
  
Sherlock snorted. “You’re the one always pointing out my ‘posh, public-school’ background. Well, it’s true and yes, I was required to take fencing. And yes, I suppose I was rather good at it. Now, have you found that notebook? This stuff is going to burn through the table and Mrs Hudson has made it very clear what she’ll do if that happens again…” He reached out one long-fingered, pale hand in an imperious gesture.  
  
John got himself up, grunting, and slapped the notebook into his hand. He leaned against the door frame, a study in casual.  
  
“Can you still?” he finally asked.  
  
“Still _what?”_   
  
“Fence.”  
  
“John! Not relevant. This is the wrong notebook.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I did say _blue._ ”  
  
“Crap.”  
  
Eventually the correct notebook was located and John sat himself down again and began to put everything else back in the box. He was trying to sort things out chronologically.  
  
There was a photo of Sherlock, about age ten, dressed in a suit that was slightly too large for him and holding a violin. He looked thrilled (as in not even vaguely) to be wherever he was. John grinned.  
  
There were two pictures of him fencing, and in those he looked a great deal happier. Elegant and graceful in his white uniform, in the first he was smiling shyly at the camera, and in the second he was completely suited up and lunging at something (someone?).  
  
John considered this as he laid the photos at the bottom of the box. Odd, he realized. Despite his complete lack of proper diet and exercise, Sherlock was extremely energetic and athletic when he needed to be. He continued sorting and stashing items.  
  
Some sheet music—“Long since memorized, John.”  
  
A few photos of a much younger Mycroft and Sherlock—”Oh, just put those _away!”_  
  
A small book on ciphers and codes, badly worn—“Just something someone gave to me. It’s come in handy more than once,” was the comment.  
  
A great deal of handwritten notes, equations, and pages torn from various chemistry textbooks—“I never know what I’ll need.”  
  
A periodic table of the elements, also hand written, in pencil, on a sheet of notebook paper—“I was somewhere without my books for a while and I got bored.”  
  
More sheet music, this time handwritten on special musical staff paper—“Early compositions. Embarrassingly trite.”  
  
A photo of _what the hell was that?_ — “Early undercover practice. Give that to me.” That photo didn’t survive the acid.  
  
“Are you enjoying that—exposing all my secrets?” Sherlock finally griped.  
  
“Yes. Immensely.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.” Despite the sincerity of the statement, there was a glimmer of amusement.  
  
And then John came across a programme. It was apparently for a recital given during his mate’s uni years. He flipped it open. The left side listed several pieces of classical music, interrupted by an interval. The right side listed the musicians, by instrument. There were three violinists; Sherlock was listed first. John glanced down the rest of the list. Of course, the names didn’t mean anything to him—wait. Go back.  
  
There. There were two pianists. The second name meant nothing, but the first one—  
  
Oh, shit.  
  
John looked up at Sherlock in disbelief.  
  
“Sherlock,” he finally was able to say.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” John held the programme out, an accusation.  
  
“Tell you what?” The chemist looked over in exasperation. “What about it? You know I played a great deal at school. I had forgotten that I had one of the programmes.” He shrugged and turned back to the beaker in front of him.  
  
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” John rose and entered the kitchen.  
  
“Then what are you on about?” Sherlock glared at him.  
  
“The pianist. The first one.” John’s mouth felt dry. He thrust the open programme toward the detective, who glanced down the list.  
  
And then looked up at John.  
  
Then down at the beaker in front of him.  
  
“Oh,” he said quietly. “That.”  
  
The first pianist had been William Atkinson.  
  



	36. Chapter 36

“Do you mind explaining this?” John asked quietly.  
  
“I’m busy.” He made a point of focusing on the beakers in front of him.  
  
“Then finish.” John tipped his head at the notebook in Sherlock’s hand, in which he was recording some results.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock huffed in exasperation. “So we can have a lovely long chat about the fact that I knew William Atkinson at university?”  
  
“Obviously.” John folded his arms across his chest.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why? Sherlock! You got through that entire case and not _once_ did you mention that you knew one of the victims.”  
  
“It wasn’t relevant.”  
  
“How could that not be relevant?”  
  
“We hadn’t been in touch in some time. I didn’t know anything about his current life that would have helped.”  
  
“You hacked into The Yard’s files when he was killed. You obviously were interested.”  
  
“That was useless, too. By the time I got to the crime scene, it was too late. Any viable evidence was gone.”  
  
John cast his memory back to when they had examined the alley in which William Atkinson was run down. “That’s how you knew about the coffee cup. That he dropped it. I had wondered about that.”  
  
“It was in one of the photos.”  
  
“You saw _all_ of the crime scene photos?”  
  
“Obviously. Look. I’m done here. Will you help clean up?”  
  
John moved automatically forward and began helping his flatmate tidy up. He didn’t say another word until they were done and the kitchen was declared clean (enough to not get them in trouble with Mrs Hudson) (again). Sherlock wandered over to the desk with his notebook and began to work on his laptop, presumably adding his findings to his website. John stood, his arms folded, just watching him for a bit.  
  
“Sherlock,” he finally said tentatively.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“If you saw all of the photos, that means that you saw his body.”  
  
“Yes.” He raised his eyebrows in his what-the-hell-does-it-matter-I’m-busy-would-you-just-shut-up? look.  
  
“That was the body of someone you knew.”  
  
“Yes. I admitted that. So what?” He stopped typing and scowled at the doctor.  
  
“So—didn’t it bother you?”  
  
“Should it have? I’ve seen hundreds of dead bodies.” He returned to typing, his shoulders hunched.  
  
“You saw the body of someone you knew after he was hit by a car. Yes, Sherlock, it should have bothered you.”  
  
“High-functioning sociopath, remember?”  
  
“You don’t believe that. _I_ certainly don’t believe that. Are you honestly telling me that it didn’t upset you at all?”  
  
…  
  
“Sherlock? I asked you a question.”  
  
“Do shut up.” Sherlock slammed the laptop shut and strode quickly down the hall and into the bedroom.  
  
*  
  


> Search: William Atkinson hit-and-run
> 
> About 527,000 results
> 
> The articles were all essentially the same: William Atkinson, age 39, was struck and killed by a transit van in an alley off Clerkenwell Close. Atkinson was on foot.
> 
> Respected architect William Atkinson, 39, is killed in an early morning hit-and-run accident in central London
> 
> Atkinson was on foot in an alley off Clerkenwell Close
> 
> The 39-year-old man was found unresponsive by a passer-by
> 
> Pronounced dead at scene
> 
> Area covered by makeshift tarpaulin tents as investigations continue
> 
> Police say a witness saw a grey transit van reserve out of the alley earlier but did not investigate
> 
> No arrests have been made
> 
> It is fourth fatal incident to involve a pedestrian on London's roads this year
> 
> By Angus O’Ross for NewsOnline
> 
> A 39-year-old architect has died after being hit, presumably by a transit van, in the early morning hours in central London, Scotland Yard said.
> 
> The van was seen reversing out of an alley off Clerkenwell Close in central London at 7am this morning. The witness could not see the van clearly due to the heavy fog and did not investigate at the time.
> 
> At approximately 7.30am the victim was found unresponsive at the scene by a passer-by, which has been covered by a makeshift tent by officers, and he was pronounced dead on arrival.
> 
> Jarnel Carca, a 42-year-old coffee vendor who runs a stand not far from the alley, was apparently the last known person to see Atkinson alive. He said: ‘He got his coffee like he does every morning. Seemed fine. Quiet, but friendly like. That was just normal for him.’
> 
> Metropolitan Police said there are no leads to suspects and no arrests have been made.
> 
> Next of kin are in the process of being informed and a post-mortem will be scheduled in due course, they said.
> 
> The incident is being investigated by the Serious Collision Investigation Unit and officers are now appealing for witnesses.
> 
> The accident is the fourth fatal incident to involve a pedestrian in London so far this year.
> 
> Follow us: @NewsOnline on Twitter | DailyNewMail on Facebook

The rest of the article delved more deeply into the statistics regarding pedestrian/vehicle fatalities and had some fairly generic photos of the scene; nothing really to see but uniformed rescuers and officers. John looked closely but didn’t think he saw Lestrade; one figure in a dark grey trench coat might have been him.

>   
>  _Search: obit William Atkinson_
> 
> _About 405,000 results_
> 
> He clicked on the most likely result, which linked him to http://www.independence.co.uk
> 
> William Atkinson: Architect and biomedical engineer hailed by experts in both fields for his precision and creative solutions to problems
> 
> A brilliant man in two seemingly disparate fields, William Atkinson was both a highly-sought-after architect and a biomedical engineer. His talent didn’t stop there, though. He was also an accomplished pianist and composer.
> 
> His primary occupation was architecture. He had been employed by Wiggins Architecture for years and had been made a supervisor. “He could just look at blueprints and it was as if he was actually in the building. Incredible ability to conceptualise and trouble-shoot,” reported company owner Leonard Wiggins. “He also had a prodigious memory. He will be greatly missed.”
> 
> According to his wife, Jordan Hamlin Atkinson, even when he was sleeping, he was producing something; perfecting something. 

The rest of it was the usual stuff: Date and location of birth, names of his parents. Lists of schools he attended and mention of a former employer. One brother—Scott. Date of his marriage.

The article included a photo of William Atkinson taken at what was probably a work site: a slightly out-of-focus half-constructed building created the background of the image. William was wearing a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up and elegant trousers. He was looking down at a clipboard, oblivious to the camera, his face appearing almost completely in profile. It was captioned: Atkinson managed two disparate careers, excelling at both architecture and biomedical engineering.

He looked as elegant and handsome and composed as John remembered from the photos in their flat.


	37. Chapter 37

John slipped off his shoes so he could walk more quietly down the hallway and listen at the bedroom door. Sherlock had closed himself in the bedroom two hours earlier, and the doctor hadn’t heard a sound since then.  
  
He wanted to knock. He wanted to call out. He wanted to break down the bloody door.  
  
He didn’t dare offer a meal. There were no worthwhile or interesting cases on the website. Shit. If he didn’t have a valid reason to intrude, Sherlock would bite his head off (again) and likely not come out for days.  
  
He crept back down the hall and picked up the newspaper.  
  
*  
  
After three hours, Sherlock finally emerged. His eyes were red and his face almost grey. He had changed his shirt and had put a dressing gown on over it, but had lost his socks. He wandered over to the desk and ran his fingers lightly across his closed laptop. John glanced up at him, then back down to his paper.  
  
His back to his flatmate, the wild-haired man finally spoke. His voice was raspy, and he had to clear his throat before anything came out. “John, I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I was rude to you.”  
  
“It’s all right.” John’s eyes continued to run across the newsprint, but he had no idea what it said.  
  
“You were right.”  
  
John dropped his paper to his lap, his eyes open wide. “I was right?” he demanded in genuine shock. “About what?”  
  
“I should have said something about knowing William during the case.”  
  
“Yes, you should have,” he agreed. “You were right in that it didn’t have any really direct bearing on it—you figured out who the murderers were without having to mention it—but, well, I think it would have been more _healthy_ if you had said something.” He nodded.  
  
Sherlock’s chin dropped to his chest. John wanted to see his face. “Come sit down,” he requested gently. “How about you tell me about him now?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and slid into his chair, curling up like a small child. “Where should I begin?”  
  
“Tell me how you met.”  
  
“Really? That’s a bit cliché, isn’t it?”  
  
“Stop being evasive. Tell me how you met William.”  
  
“Very well,” Sherlock sighed, adding an eye roll that had John biting back a smile—drama queen! “We met at an audition.”  
  
“For?”  
  
“A string quartet with piano. It was for a competition; we would be representing the university.”  
  
“I take it you both made it in.”  
  
“Yes, of course.” Of course. It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. Modesty was simply not a word in the maniac’s vocabulary. “We ultimately played Dvořák’s ‘Piano Quintet in A major op. 81.’” Whatever that meant.  
  
“Ultimately?”  
  
“We worked on several pieces. That was our best.” Sherlock ran one finger along the arm of the chair, watching it intently.  
  
“So did you hit it off immediately? At the audition, I mean.” John unconsciously began mirroring Sherlock’s motion, running his fingers along the worn arm of his own chair.  
  
“Yes. We weren’t competing for the same chair, and we just sort of started… ummm… it was something you’d consider A Bit Not Good, I’m afraid.”  
  
John’s fingers stopped moving. “You were criticizing the other musicians, weren’t you,” he stated.  
  
“A bit. It was more…” Sherlock’s voice sounded a bit dreamy; far off. “Some pianists are great technicians. Some are extremely artistic. William was both. Listening to him was—you would just get enveloped in it. It was mesmerizing to watch him perform, as well. It never looked like he was actually touching the keys. His hands just floated over the keyboard. Incredible.” He paused and seemed to realize that he had been drifting a bit. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to play with him. None of the other pianists even came close.”  
  
“Did he feel the same way about you?”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “I suppose. Well, yes. He did. He had heard that I was auditioning. I had forgotten that.”  
  
“So you both got into the group. I take it there were long rehearsals?”  
  
“Hours and hours. It never seemed like it, though. The time would just fly by and suddenly it would be midnight and someone would suggest ending for the day and getting a bite to eat.”  
  
“How did you do in the competition?”  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Came in second. I blame the cellist.”  
  
John laughed and eventually Sherlock smiled shyly, the way he did when he knew that he had been funny but didn’t quite understand the joke himself. Finally, the doctor collected himself. “After the competition, did you continue to play together?”  
  
“As often as possible. Concerts. Competitions. Any time we could. As much as we could.”  
  
John sobered, clearly turning an idea over in his head, and Sherlock let his mind wander, recalling—  
  
“Did you just play together? Or did you do other things, as well? Go out to eat; watch telly?”  
  
“Things like that--yes. Mostly we just talked.”  
  
“So you were friends.”  
  
“I suppose we were friends of a sort.”  
  
“‘Of a sort?’ I hate to break this to you, Mister I-Don’t-Have-Friends, but if you spend as much time with someone as you can, and you do things like getting a bite or just talking, that _is_ being friends.”  
  
Sherlock huffed, squirming in his chair until he was more upright. “All right. So we were friends, if it’s that important to you that it has a label.”  
  
“It’s not the label that’s important. It’s the relationship,” John explained patiently.  
  
Sherlock shook his head in aggravation. “Relationships. Why does it always come back to that? ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Why do I have to ‘have’ anything?”  
  
“Sherlock, people matter. Even to you. If they didn’t, you wouldn’t have been so hurt by Victor.” John regretted that as soon as it passed his lips.  
  
Sherlock glared at him, his hands now clenching the arms of the chair. “Victor had _nothing_ to do with William,” he hissed out. “Absolutely nothing.”  
  
“All right. I’m sorry. But do you understand that yes, you and William were friends—that was the relationship between you—and you liked it. You liked having a friend like that.”  
  
“Fine. If it’s that important to you, yes, William and I were friends. Good friends.” Sherlock suddenly clamped his mouth shut, but John caught it anyway.  
  
“So you were _good_ friends. So his death definitely had an impact on you. His murder. A murder that you didn’t solve. And because of that, his wife—” John stopped himself short. “Oh. Oh, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. Oh, God. I didn’t mean that it was your fault that she got killed. That’s not what I was getting at.”  
  
“But it’s true. If I had found William’s murderers last year, they wouldn’t have been able to kill his wife nine months later.”  
  
“But you weren’t involved in the case!”  
  
“Didn’t matter. I should have been able to solve it just from the files.”  
  
“They didn’t have enough evidence, Lestrade said—just some bad video. They still haven’t found where they borrowed—stole—the transit van from—no one reported a vehicle with damage and it wasn’t abandoned anywhere. Not even you could have figured it out from just that.”  
  
“I could have talked to his wife.”  
  
John paused and looked closely at his flatmate’s face. It was a study in misery. He sighed and leaned forward, resting his hand on one bony knee. “Did you know that he was married?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Certainly. I was invited to the wedding.”  
  
“Oh. So you did stay in touch. I take it you didn’t attend.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t.”  
  
“Did you at least respond? Acknowledge it in any way?”  
  
“I…”  
  
“You what?”  
  
“I composed a piece. For piano and violin. I recorded it, and I sent it to him.”  
  
John finally understood what the phrase “stunned silence” meant. It took him a full two minutes to find his voice.   
  
“God, Sherlock. That’s… that’s incredible. That’s probably—no, it is—that’s the most thoughtful and unique wedding gift I’ve ever heard of.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "What does it matter?” His jaw was clenched tightly. He thrust himself out of his chair and began pacing. They would have to pay for a replacement carpet if he kept this up, John thought. He was practically wearing grooves in it.  
  
“It matters because it adds a layer. It adds more to the relationship.”  
  
Sherlock stopped pacing and began fidgeting with his violin and music stand, his back to John.  
  
“Look. Imagine that you’re the centre of the universe—did I just say that? Never mind. No. Delete that. Imagine that you’re… uh… oh! The nucleus of an atom.”  
  
Sherlock turned and looked at him.  
  
John rambled on. “And other people are like the electrons, moving around you. And there are layers. There’s the people closest to you—me, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade—whoever you like— and then there’s Angelo, and Molly, and whoever—you get the idea. And all that together—those relationships between you and all those other people—that’s what makes you who you are. And the layers closest to you have the most impact.”  
  
Sherlock was staring at him, speechless and motionless for a moment. John could see the conflict on his face. Would he react with outrage at the suggestion that it was the dreaded relationships that made him who he was? Or would he make a snide comment about how moronic John—and most of the population—was, then change the subject? Or would he actually continue talking? Because he needed to.  
  
Please pick Door Number Three, Sherlock.  
  



	38. Chapter 38

“Come sit by me and tell me. Please.” He patted his knee invitingly.  
  
Finally, the gangly man approached him and dropped to the floor, his legs crossed underneath him. He leaned against John’s knee and John automatically began running his fingers through the dark curls. “It’s just me, Sherlock. Just tell me. Tell me about William. Tell me more about him as a person—as your friend. What was he like?”  
  
Sherlock considered this for a bit. He finally began to speak, his voice lower than usual. “He played piano brilliantly. One time we went out, just wandering, and there was an auction house. Only certified or something dealers could get in, but there were several pianos and he sweet-talked his way in and he played for me for over an hour.”  
  
“That sounds lovely.”  
  
“He was brilliant.”  
  
“What else?”  
  
“He…”  
  
“It’s all right. It’s all right to miss him.”  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
“He was… he was everything that anyone has said. Intelligent. I mean, really brilliant—a genius in his field. Fields. Well-dressed. He was really the reason that I started dressing the way I do.”  
  
“What else?”  
  
“William…  
  
“William didn’t like Thai food.  
  
“William liked Danger Mouse. That cartoon secret agent? He had a t-shirt with Danger Mouse and Penfold and a mousepad. And all the episodes. We’d watch them… we would watch them…”  
  
And John would never tell anyone and Sherlock would never admit it but right then his voice caught in his throat and there was a silence that lasted about a century. Eventually—finally—Sherlock continued.  
  
“He was the same height as me and the same pale skin and the same passion for music, and some people even said that we looked the same except for hair colour of course and he was brilliant on the keyboard and we just melded together when we played. We liked to spend time together, just talking. It was funny. In front of most people, he would get rather tongue-tied. He was more terrified of parties than I was. But when we were alone, he was—eloquent.”  
  
“So a well-dressed, socially awkward genius. I can see why you got along. What happened to him after school?”  
  
The detective shifted; pulled his head away from John’s knee and sat up, turning his head to look at him. “He got a job. As an architect.”  
  
John knew better than to ask about Sherlock’s post-uni years. He had heard enough about those from Mycroft. “Did you continue to see each other—I mean, talk; that sort of thing?”  
  
“At first.”  
  
“You drifted apart?”  
  
“I suppose. He was busy with his career and I was…”  
  
“Mmm. Yes. I know what you were doing,” John commented drily.  
  
“We saw each other occasionally. He had a piano in his flat and we used to play until the neighbours threatened to phone the police.” John could tell from his voice that Sherlock was grinning.  
  
“Brat,” he responded fondly.  
  
“It was when he was hired by that firm—Wiggins?—that he got really busy. He loved it. He was brilliant at what he was doing. And by then I was… making various connections to further my own career.”  
  
“Like hanging out with homeless people.”  
  
“Yes.” Sherlock replied so solemnly that John nearly laughed out loud.  
  
“How old was he when he got married?”  
  
“Thirty-three.”  
  
“Did you ever meet his wife?”  
  
“No. They invited me to dinner several times, but I never went.”  
  
John recalled how William’s boss had described Jordan Hamlin Atkinson. She was tiny (he had seen her body _don’t think about that but yes she was tiny_ ). She was a “pip.” Full of energy. Obsessively organized. But also creative. He had seen that for himself in their flat.  
  
Oh.  
  
Their flat.  
  
How much time had Sherlock spent looking at their bookcases, which were literally full to overflowing? What had he been looking for? Had he found it? “When you were looking at the bookcases in their flat, you were looking for something specific, weren’t you?” Silence. “What were you looking for?”  
  
“I…” the beautiful mouth opened, then shut.  
  
”You…?” John encouraged, undaunted. “Put your head down.” Sherlock rested his head back on John’s knee.  
  
“I gave him a book. I wanted to see if he still had it.”  
  
“And did he?”  
  
“Yes,” was the curt reply.  
  
“And what book was it?” John stroked the dark curls.  
  
“ _Brideshead Revisited._ ” A very long pause. Sherlock took a deep breath. “There’s a quote in it: ‘My cousin Jasper had told me that it was normal to spend one’s second year shaking off the friends of one’s first.’ You recall what I’ve told you about Victor.”  
  
“Yes. Of course.” Yes, and it enraged him.  
  
“That was my first year.”  
  
“Yeah?” John finally asked, hesitantly.  
  
“My second year… my second year was William.” The deep, lovely voice was tight; unsure.  
  
“Were you more than just friends?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock’s voice was dark.  
  
“I mean, was there more than just friendship? Was there anything physical?”  
  
Sherlock sat bolt upright and hit the chair with his fist. “Always! It’s always about that. Why does every relationship have to end up with that?”  
  
“Not every relationship does, Sherlock, but some do. I would just like to know if that was part of your relationship with William. Settle down and tell me.”  
  
Sherlock laid his head back down. John’s knee had felt cold when he had pulled away.  
  
“William was… lovely. I liked him. I liked him… the way…” Sherlock’s voice was rough.  
  
“‘The way’ what?” he gently prodded.  
  
“I liked William the way you liked Sarah.” It came out as an exhalation; a breath.  
  
John automatically continued stroking the curls; the familiar forehead. “So…” he had to clear his throat. “So… you fancied him?”  
  
A silence.  
  
“And did he… fancy you?”  
  
“He… didn’t fancy me quite the same way, but it was fine with him. More than fine, sometimes.”  
  
A long, long pause—on John Watsons’s side, now. “Oh,” he finally said, shifting slightly in his chair. “Did you ever—erm…”  
  
“You mean, did we have sex?”  
  
“Yes. That.” _No, that’s not what you mean, John._ “No. Not _just_ that.” He shifted again and Sherlock turned so he could see his face, a hand on his knee. “‘Just sex’ is what you had with Victor Trevor. Intimacy—sexual intimacy—is about a lot more than that.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’d call it, then. We kissed. Touched. Never anything more than that.”  
  
“That sounds nice, though.”  
  
“Yes. It was.” Sherlock looked sad. “Much nicer than what Victor did to me.”  
  
“I don’t think I want to hear more about that,” John said truthfully.  
  
“Don’t you, though? You always seem to want to delve into the sexual side of things.” A pause. A beat. “Don’t you?”  
  
Yeah.  
  
He _didn’t wouldn’t couldn’t daren’t_ consider it right now.  
  
But a part of him… yeah. A part of him _wanted_ to.  
  
Quite a bit.  
  
He continued stroking Sherlock’s curls and razor-sharp cheeks and his clavicle and—stop that, John.  
  
It was quiet for a long, long time.  
  
Yes. John admitted it. He was… not quite turned on, but it was very, very close and what if Sherlock and William had had a relationship of any sort years ago? Wouldn’t that be… fine? It was. He had always meant that. Sincerely. John thought about that for a bit. He had been raised in a fairly traditional household. Traditional schooling. Rugby team. Then medical school and then the army and then…  
  
 _Are you even slightly surprised at yourself?_  
  
Nope.  
  
 _And why is that?_  
  
Come off it, John. Your sister is gay.  
  
But now was not really the time to be thinking about—things.  
  
Instead, he patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you want anything to eat?”  
  
“No. Maybe tea?”  
  
“I would be delighted to make tea. How about a few biscuits?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Excellent. Let me up.”  
  



	39. Chapter 39

“Will you be all right sleeping by yourself tonight?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock frowned. “Why? Where will you be?”  
  
“I think I’ve picked up that stomach thing that’s going around, and I don’t want to give it you. I’ll sleep upstairs. I can try out my new bedclothes.”  
  
“Yes, I’ll be all right.”  
  
*  
  
Because, yes, he wanted to…  
  
He wanted to be tangled in those long legs.  
  
He wanted to be kissing that pale skin.  
  
He wanted to (God help him) be grinding up against him in a way that was clearly NOT not-gay. Skin to skin and organ to hard, lovely, leaking organ.  
  
Yes.  
  
*  
  
The sheets were a medium blue that he did like and as soft as Sherlock’s. They made the room feel a bit friendlier. Because otherwise--it was lonely. Cold and still.  
  
He’d gotten so used to sleeping with Sherlock. Oh.  
  
He slid between the sheets, his chest bare, and old, worn track pants sagging around his hips. Loose. So very loose. He could slide his hand into them so easily.  
  
So very easily.  
  
So he did.  
  
*  
  
It had been ages. With everything that had been happening, it hadn’t even crossed his mind recently. But now—with life finally looking a bit brighter and the worst of it behind them, he had been thinking about it. Quite a bit. Quite often. At sometimes fairly inappropriate times.  
  
So now he slid his hand down and wrapped his fingers around himself. Oh, that was nice. That felt lovely. He began a slow, easy motion; he wanted to take his time. He wanted to think about what it would feel like if it was someone else’s hand. Not just anyone’s hand, of course. No. He was thinking about one particular hand.  
  
And how would the other hand feel if—he ran it lightly up and down his chest; brushing his thumb across his nipple. Oh that felt good. Now he wanted…  
  
Fingers brushed across his lips. A tentative tongue tasted his own skin. He slid a finger in and sucked it.  
  
The other hand began to move a little faster.  
  
Wank.  
  
Funny word. Funny phrase. “Having a wank.” “Having a lovely wank; wish you were here?”  
  
Yes, that actually worked, because he was having a lovely wank and he most certainly wished that someone else was there.  
  
He reached for the bedside table; tugged open the drawer. Withdrew a small plastic bottle.  
  
Oh, that was very nice indeed.  
  
A noise escaped his lips. A moan.  
  
God, it felt good. He was so hard and beginning to leak a bit. He was beginning to sweat. He wondered if he’d want a shower after or if he’d just fall asleep in the sweaty, sticky sheets.  
  
He would figure it out shortly. Very shortly. He groaned and stroked himself rapidly now. He felt it coming; felt the tightening. His head fell back. His mouth was open and his eyes shut. Just… just…  
  
bursting pumping flowing throbbing pulsing  
  
and a name burst pumped flowed out of his mouth  
  
*John*  
  



	40. Chapter 40

John returned from work in the late afternoon. He was delighted to hear Sherlock’s violin as he ascended the stairs. “That’s nice,” he commented, slipping out of his jacket. “A little lighter than you’ve been playing.”  
  
“I felt like a change. You’re chipper.”  
  
“Easy day.” He wandered into the kitchen and peered into the fridge. “No more rats on ice?” he inquired pleasantly.  
  
“It was the pet shop boy,” the detective explained.  
  
“Ah. Tell me more over dinner.” He looked into the fridge again, opening and closing a drawer, pondering. “I got nothing,” he finally commented to himself. “Hey!” he called out. “How about we go out to dinner tonight? I don’t feel like cooking and I am sick to death of takeaway.”  
  
Sherlock considered it. “All right. In a bit?”  
  
“Yeah, no rush.” The doctor kicked off his shoes and, grabbing a newspaper, settled comfortably into his chair. The sweet sound of Sherlock’s violin filled the flat, and the sun coming through the windows was as gentle as the breeze that accompanied it. The street sounds floated up, creating a rather interesting counterpoint to the strings, and Sherlock seemed to pick up on it. His playing changed, and he moved away from his music stand and turned toward John.  
  
John smiled, put down his paper, and watched while the music danced from his flatmate’s fingertips. “Improvising?” the older man asked when, with a light flourish, the violinist put up his bow.  
  
“Mmm,” came the thoughtful reply. He turned back towards his stand and began to page through the sheet music there. He was relaxed and calm. Encouraged by the gentle tone, John rose and walked up behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his waist and laying his head on the crisp buttoned shirt between the prominent shoulder blades. Sherlock paused in his sorting and laid his hand over John’s. “What’s this then?” he asked softly. John could tell that he was smiling.  
  
“I’ve missed you. It’s good to have you back.”  
  
“I never went anywhere.”  
  
“Yeah, you did, for a bit. And I couldn’t follow, and I didn’t like that.” John’s voice was strained.  
  
“You were never far behind,” Sherlock assured him quietly.  
  
They stood in silence for a bit, just enjoying the moment. John took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of the clean shirt and the warm skin beneath it. John unwrapped himself and began to rub circles on Sherlock’s back. “You’re still too thin,” he commented, not unkindly.  
  
“So tonight’s dinner is to ‘feed me up’?” was the amused reply. He put down the violin that he had still been holding in one hand.  
  
“Yup. My treat. Including dessert.”  
  
Sherlock exhaled. It wasn’t a sigh; not really. “That feels nice,” he admitted. He tipped his head back and John moved his hand up to stroke the back of his head through the dark curls. He moved slightly to the side to get a better angle, and that’s when he caught sight of Sherlock’s face.  
  
Eyes shut, mouth lax and slightly open, forehead relaxed and unlined, his pale skin glowing in the soft sunlight. John slid his hand to just behind his left ear, and Sherlock automatically tipped his head in that direction, exposing his neck.  
  
A twinge. _Shit._ John blinked in surprise.  
  
“Mmm,” the younger man almost purred in his contentment at the petting he was receiving.  
  
 _There it was again. Shit!_ John tore his eyes away from his flatmate’s tranquil face.  
  
Sherlock raised his left hand and captured John’s with it, pressing it into his warm scalp.   
  
Oh, this was not going to end well.  
  
“Why does that feel so nice?” the taller man asked lazily, interrupting John’s internal monologue.  
  
“Do you want to hear about specialized nerve fibres that respond especially well to slow, gentle touches?” the doctor replied softly. _Please say yes,_ he thought to himself, _because I’d rather talk about the differences between Group-A and Group-C nerves than_ … oh, nerves in parts of the body was probably actually not a safe topic of conversation right about now. Particularly his own body. And a very specific part. Shit.  
  
Sherlock shrugged, dislodging the gentle hand. He turned so that he was facing his blogger, whose arms shifted back down to his waist. He was still smiling as he placed his arms gently on the broad, sturdy shoulders.  
  
John stopped smiling.   
  
Immediately, Sherlock stopped as well, and now the much-more-familiar frown appeared. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.  
  
“Nothing.” John released his hold on Sherlock’s waist and took a step back. “Just… I think I’d like some tea. Do you want—?”  
  
“You’re lying.” Sherlock scanned John’s face first, automatically going into “deducing” mode.   
  
His eyes then swept down John’s body.  
  
Down the front of John’s body.  
  
Oh.  
  
“Sorry,” John mumbled, staring at the floor and trying to back up further so he could turn and run, very probably directly out of the flat and then perhaps to the nearest bridge so he could jump off in his embarrass—  
  
“John.” The voice was soft and deep and gentle and understanding.  
  
Wait. Understanding? Then long-fingered hands reached out and gently encircled his hips and he found himself being tugged closer.  
  
 _No._ He resisted, still unable to look up.  
  
“Please.”  
  
Please? He finally looked into the incandescent blue-green-grey-silver-gold eyes that so many people found both fascinating and intimidating. But not now. Instead of piercing or blazing or flashing; instead of narrowing in suspicion or rolling in contempt, they were—  
  
Open. Wide. Dark.  
  
Oh.  
  
“John,” Sherlock repeated softly. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I _want_ this.”  
  
For two seconds, they simply stared at each other. John licked his lips.  
  
And then he pushed away from his flatmate’s hands and crap what was that behind him? He couldn’t retreat any further. He put his hands up. “No,” he managed to get out.  
  
“No?” Sherlock echoed in dismay. “But _you_ want this. Eyes wide open; pupils dilated. Increased heart rate. And—”  
  
“Don’t. Don’t say it. Sherlock, this is not okay. Let’s just stop, all right?” John tried to slip around the taller man.  
  
“Why?” Oh, shit. Sherlock sounded frustrated and confused. Very possibly because he _was_ frustrated and confused.   
  
Calm down. Concentrate. Clarify the situation. “Why is this not okay?”   
  
“Yes! People go on for ages about how odd it is that I don’t want this—that something must be wrong with me—and now that I do, you say that it’s wrong?”  
  
“Whoa. Okay. I think we need to talk about this, yeah? How about we sit down and—”  
  
“No!” Sherlock actually stomped his foot. “John, I don’t understand this—I don’t understand a lot about feelings and emotions, especially my own, but right now I am fairly certain that I want to—” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. His voice took on a plaintive tone. “I don’t know what I want. I just know that I want something from you—something like you rubbing my back and holding me—but more. A lot more.”  
  
“Like what?” John replied slowly; thoughtfully.  
  
“I don’t know! What do people ordinarily want? Touching? I want touching. Yes. More touching. You touching me and me touching you.”  
  
John thought for a full minute. He thought about pros and cons. He thought about “not gay” and Sarah and all the other women who had preceded and who had followed. He thought about what people would say. What people were already saying. What people had been telling him since the minute he had first met the maniac who now stood in front of him with a frustrated frown on his beautiful face. Beautiful. Yes. He, John Watson, thought that his flatmate Sherlock Holmes was beautiful, and suddenly he realized that this was all right. It had been all right for ages. People had been telling him it was all right for ages. So. Time to listen. John took the short step needed to bring them chest-to-chest and rested his hands lightly on Sherlock’s hips. “You mean like this? Do you want me to touch you like this?”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth opened in surprise. He had been watching his John as a thousand thoughts flashed through his head—the man’s face was so expressive that it was like a great shop window, brightly lit and full of lovely things. And now—well. Here was his face, so much closer. And other parts of his strong, solid body, very much closer now. He could feel the heat of John’s body through his clothing. It felt fantastic. He swallowed and finally replied, “Yes. Definitely. I like that.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“May I… reciprocate?”  
  
“Yes.” John’s voice was breathy, as if he’d been running. Sherlock reached up and tentatively brushed John’s cheek with one finger, and then wrapped his hand around the back of John’s neck. John made an interesting noise in his throat. “What else do you think you want?”  
  
“I want to put my face very close to yours. I want to––” Instead of finishing his statement, he leaned forward and nuzzled along John’s ear, breathing in deeply. John’s arms went up and around Sherlock’s neck, cradling his head.  
  
“Well?” he said eventually. “What do you think?”  
  
“You took the Tube home. You’ve worn that jumper three times since laundering it last. You changed shampoos but not before you ran out and used mine.”  
  
John chuckled. “My mistake. I should have said, ‘How does that feel?’”  
  
“Oh! It feels like I want to just keep breathing you in.”  
  
John nodded. “Okay. Do that. Is there anything else you’d like to do?”  
  
Sherlock’s voice was low and his lips brushed John’s ear as he tentatively replied. “Kissing? Is kissing one of the things?”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock. Kissing is definitely one of those things. Are you saying that you’d like to kiss me?”  
  
Sherlock thought for a second. “I think I’d like it if _you_ kissed _me_. I think there’s a difference.”  
  
“You’re right, in a way. There can be a difference.” There was a pause. Sherlock continued to nuzzle at the skin behind John’s ear and down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. John’s hands were now rubbing slow circles on Sherlock’s back, his face tucked into the hollow of the too-prominent collarbone. “Sherlock,” John finally sighed. “Are you _sure_ you want this?”  
  
In reply, Sherlock pressed himself against John. “Yes, John. I’m quite sure.” He paused and pulled his head back so that he could look carefully at John’s face again. “Do _you_ want this?”  
  
“Five minutes ago, if you had asked me, I would have said no. I fact, I’m pretty sure that I _did_ say no.”  
  
“What about now?” the taller man pressed.  
  
“I think it’s fairly obvious what I want now,” John whispered.   
  
Sherlock considered this carefully before nodding in agreement. “What changed?” he asked.  
  
“You did. You telling me what you wanted.”  
  
“So, it was that the feelings were mutual?” Sherlock was sliding into his “solve the puzzle” voice.  
  
“Yeah. Of course. It’s not exactly a turn-on if one person is just panting over another and it’s not reciprocal.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
John expected the detective to launch into some sort of analysis of his comment, then examine John’s feelings, then extrapolate to other people he knew, and then eventually to apply his general theory of human emotions and behaviours to the entire population. Instead, he suddenly felt something soft and warm on his cheek as Sherlock leaned forward and breathed, “Does that mean that we can kiss now?”  
  
*  
  
Oh, the _kissing._ Oh, God. John couldn’t remember a time when kissing was so wonderful—delicious—tantalizing—fantastic in itself and yet implying _there’s so much more to follow._ Maybe when he was a teenager—those first few times, when he wasn’t ever sure how far a girl would go, but he liked to imagine it, and very possibly what he imagined at those times was far better than the actuality.  
  
How far would this go? How far did he want this to go? How far was Sherlock ready to go?  
  
And then he was right there and John was feeling Sherlock’s lips against his and o god this was exactly what he had hoped it would be like and the blood was rushing so that he couldn’t hear anything see anything there was just  
  
feeling  
  
And then there was movement and something hard and his back was pressed up against the wall or the window or possibly the planet Mars and he didn’t care as long as it meant that it gave him leverage and he pushed back and tasted and tasted that beautiful mouth until he couldn’t breathe but he kept tasting  
  
and tasting  
  
And then breathing seemed somewhat necessary and they broke contact but that was dreadful and John buried his nose into the collar of that ridiculously tight shirt and up against the white taut skin of that neck o god how often had he dreamed of kissing that neck licking that neck tasting that neck and smelling that skin  
  
Breathing it in  
  
How inside the collar smelled of smoke and peppermint and possibly hydrochloric acid and SHERLOCK  
  
And then breathing became boring again and those lovely lips recaptured his but not before he heard it had heard it had heard it a million times shouted grunted whispered snarled snapped laughed but it had never sounded like this before would it ever again?  
  
*John*  
  
*  
  
Another breath. Separate the smallest amount possible. Just enough to allow him to kiss across the pale cheek and down onto that neck again what was it about that neck? And a pause. “What?” he asked, gently.  
  
“John, now I want to…” Sherlock stopped, puzzled again.  
  
John looked at him closely. “What do you want to do, my love?” he encouraged. The endearment slid past both of them, unremarked.  
  
“That’s it. I don’t quite know.”  
  
“What do you _think_ you want to do?”  
  
“Kiss me again. Please.”  
  
And John obliged, happily, and then Sherlock’s body took over for his brain and suddenly it seemed to know what it wanted to do without any direction from him at all and John grinned into the kiss as he felt the bony hips begin to move. He shifted his own hips slightly and—  
  
There.  
  
 _Oh_ , that _was better_ Sherlock’s body sighed.  
  
“Is that what you want?” John whispered against his ear. The taller man shuddered as his earlobe felt warmth breath on it. “Is that what you need?”  
  
“Is it? I don’t know. I really don’t know.”  
  
John paused and pulled back so that he could see Sherlock’s eyes. They were searching and desperate and a tiny bit afraid. “I would really, really like to think it is, because that’s what I want.”  
  
“John, _tell me._ Tell me what you want next. Tell me what _I_ want next!”  
  
“What we _both_ want,” John reminded him, tipping his head up so he could brush whisper-soft kisses on the razor-sharp cheekbone.  
  
“Yes. That.” Sherlock sounded a bit desperate. “What do we both want?”  
  
Instead of replying, John pulled himself away. Sherlock whimpered. “No, it’s all right,” the doctor soothed. “Come with me.”  
  
Sherlock felt himself being pushed back and then his hand was in John’s and he was being pulled down the hall. “Where are we going?” he asked, even though it was fairly obvious where they were going. The more precise question was, “Why?”  
  
“Why what?” John laughed, turning and walking backwards as he pulled him along.  
  
“Why are we going to the bedroom? It seems a bit cliché.”  
  
“Oh, and you would know cliché?”  
  
“John, you do make me watch those awful movies. The newly-formed couple always goes into a bedroom roughly the size of a football field with a bed the size of a car that they couldn’t possibly afford—”  
  
“Angles.” John turned forward again, switching hands so he didn’t lose contact.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Angles. Some things are nicer at certain angles, and the bedroom offers the most accommodating furniture.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock nodded in understanding. That made sense. John being quite a bit shorter, it must have hurt his neck, tipping his head up that way while they were kissing. If they were both horizontal, they could more easily align themselves.  
  
And then there would be more kissing.  
  
Excellent thinking, Doctor.  
  
*  
  
John was a _genius._ Kissing was much nicer when one wasn’t concerned about a crick in one’s neck, or knocking over the music stand, or toppling over the arm of the sofa.  
  
And then there was a flurry of clothing coming off. Not at all graceful. Not one bit. Speed took precedence.  
  
And it happened just the way his John had told him it would and then there was all this lovely, lovely skin. Softer than the softest cotton. Warm and responsive and smooth like satin. He couldn’t help himself. He began stroking it; skimming his fingertips across it. He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do but John certainly didn’t seem to object so he continued and then there were hands on his skin and oh that was wonderful and now he couldn’t decide which he liked better—kissing or all this touching and then he didn’t have to decide because wonderful, clever John demonstrated that they could do both at once and John’s hands  
  
And John’s hand  
  
“Is this all right?”  
  
“Is what… all right?” he panted.  
  
“Is it all right if I touch you? I want to touch you.”  
  
“You already are.” John must be muddled. Or maybe Sherlock was. Because wasn’t John already touching him?  
  
“No, I mean like _this._ ” This is happening this is really happening this is finally really happening and it’s even better than I imagined and Christ I’m hard and you’re hard and it feels so right to have you in my hand and you’re leaking a bit and I wonder what that would taste like  
  
So he tasted  
  
And it was good  
  
Fuck, it was _fantastic_  
  
And now he moved around so he could continue tasting that loveliness while he took one of Sherlock’s hands and directed it to his own rather urgent need and Sherlock always was a quick learner and soon the long-fingered hand and his mouth were working in unison and he didn’t have to explain anything to Sherlock any more.  
  
Sherlock  
  
Oh Sherlock  
  
Oh my Sherlock  
  
Oh my beautiful Sherlock  
  
*  
  
Oh my God John  
  
Oh God John  
  
Oh John  
  
John  
  
  
  
And he did have quite a bit more experience in this area and so he was ready when Sherlock stopped moving his hips and stopped moving his hand and everything except his pumping blood stopped  
  
Pumping  
  
God that was good  
  
  
  
…  
  
Air  
  
Breathing  
  
Breathing air was good  
  
Breathing air on bare skin was very good  
  
*  
  
Sherlock finally rolled over onto his stomach so he could see John’s face. John was smiling that very special smile he reserved just for Sherlock when Sherlock had done an amazing, fantastic—no, he reserved it for when Sherlock had done a _good_ thing.  
  
Sherlock smiled back, and it was his just-for-John real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “So, Angelo’s?” he inquired mildly.  
  
“Hungry?”   
  
_“Famished.”_  
  
  
  



	41. Chapter 41

Lestrade glanced at them as they arrived at the crime scene. Sherlock was looking his old self again, finally—striding eagerly over to where he was; John was trailing behind.  
  
“So, what have you got for me?” the consulting detective grinned. John caught up with him.  
  
“Erm… Sherlock. The smiling?” John motioned toward his mate’s mouth.  
  
Sherlock immediately dropped the grin, but Lestrade could still see a small smile fighting to come out. He frowned at that, but proceeded. “Yeah, it’s a gang thing, we’re pretty sure, but this one’s got a twist. They’re sending coded messages to their targets before each kill. We finally intercepted a fresh one; thought you ‘d like to have a go at it.”  
  
“Oh, I do love codes! Yes.” Sherlock nodded and turned from them, his eyes flicking rapidly along the line of crude stick figures that had been drawn with a finger in the grunge that lay thick and dark on the car’s bonnet. “Interesting,” he murmured, completely enraptured.  
  
Lestrade motioned for John to take a few steps away while the gangly man muttered to himself, drawing figures of his own in the air. They bent their heads close to one another and spoke as softly as they could.  
  
“How’s he doing? He looks really good.”  
  
“Yeah. He’s… really good. More than really good. He’s actually sort of fantastic…”  
  
The DI stared at him. His face—that soft smile he directed back at Sherlock. The slightest of blushes on his cheeks. No, really?  
  
And then Sherlock looked up from a small notebook in which he was writing, caught the doctor’s eye, and—oh shit—smiled back.  
  
“Oh, you didn’t…” the silver-haired man uttered in amazement.  
  
“Didn’t what?” John inquired, his eyebrows raised.  
  
“You two. You… did, didn’t you?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” John replied innocently. “Look, I’m going to go find some coffee for the two of us. We were both up all night.”  
  
And the grin he shot Lestrade over his shoulder as he strode away said it all.


	42. Chapter 42

“John, do you remember explaining relationships to me?”  
  
“Huh?” John was poking at the toaster. It seemed to have eaten the bread and it smelled a bit...odd.  
  
“Ages ago. You told me that if I was the nucleus of an atom, all the people around me were like the electrons.”  
  
“Oh, right. You remembered that?” He grabbed the butter knife.  
  
“It was extremely helpful imagery. Maybe you should unplug that first?”  
  
“Probably. Yes.” He unplugged the toaster before plunging the knife into it. “So, what about atoms and relationships—son of a bi—” He upturned the toaster and shook it violently.  
  
“You said that the people closest to me in particular made me who I am. You’re getting crumbs everywhere.”  
  
“There’s something jammed in there. Yes, I did.” He banged the toaster on the counter a few times.  
  
“There’s one aspect of the atom that you failed to take into account. Maybe a fork?”  
  
“Oh? What did I miss, Mr Science? Yeah, pass me a fork.” John put the toaster down and put out his hand as if expecting a surgical instrument to be slapped into it.  
  
“Fork.” Sherlock slapped the fork into his hand like a surgical instrument. “It’s about the nucleus.”  
  
John peered into the toaster. “What the hell is that?”  
  
“The nucleus is actually made up of neutrons and protons. We could borrow Mrs Hudson’s toaster.”  
  
“We’ve been banned from borrowing it ever again. So what about my analogy are you taking exception to?”  
  
“We could just buy a new toaster.”  
  
“Sherlock, what did you do to it?”  
  
“John, in an atom, it’s the number of protons in the nucleus that determines what element it is.”  
  
“Did you put something—what the hell is this?” John began to pull something out of the jammed slot.  
  
“Would you just shut up about the toaster? I’m trying to make a point.”  
  
He held the darkened, smouldering object at arm’s length, his nose wrinkling at the smell. “Sherlock, did you put a shoelace in the toaster?”  
  
“Possibly, yes.”  
  
“Why the hell…”  
  
“John!” he bellowed. “Are you _listening_ to me? I’m trying to tell you that _you_ are the protons in my nucleus. It’s _you_ who makes me who I am.”  
  
“What …?”  
  
“I’m trying to tell you that I love you, you idiot!”  
  
John dropped the shoelace.  
  



End file.
